Uninvited Guests

“I can’t make the guacamole without making salsa first.” Cee gave me his trademark raised eyebrow and continued cutting tomatoes. At his elbow a large measuring cup held what seemed like an endless supply of fresh lime juice, their tiny skins littered the top of the compost bin further down the granite counter.

Karma and I watched, she leaned against the kitchen wall and I grabbed one of the kid’s surprisingly heavy wooden chairs in the corner, and we chatted with Cee.A few years ago this was an almost weekly event. It was actually how Karma and I became friends - both showing up around dinner time to Cee and Mil's house and shamelessly inviting ourselves to dinner. This time we'd sunk to new lows, calling over to see if Cee was cooking and offering to go to the store on our way over. So we grabbed produce and wine and our uninvited selves were greeted with smiles.

After delicately picking the leaves from the cilantro stems, an interesting juxtaposition of delicacy against size and a purposeful (if not completely accurate) “I don’t give a …” attitude, Cee turned to the onions and then blended them altogether. He rolled his eyes as I dipped in a bluecorn chip, “that won’t taste right, there’s not salt and it has only been mixed together for thirty seconds.” He sighed as I scooped again and smiled up at him.

Next was the guacamole. He sliced open four avocados and mashed away, splashed in a helping of the salsa that had been set aside, mixed and set aside.

I had thought this meal would be a quick one when I saw the protein was fish and not chicken or beef. Few meals, even seemingly basic ones, were simple or quick at the hands of Cee because he is both diligent and particular. His diligence makes for a wondrous and flavorful adventure and we usually chat while we watch the magic happen. 

Salsa, check. Guacamole, check. The only remaining thing was the fish. i figured a quick stirfry with onions or something but instead Cee made a creamy sauce of plain yogurt, mayonnaise, and cilantro and set that aside. Then he heated oil. as the oil crept toward the proper temperature he slowly mixed flour and water and seasoning into a batter slightly thicker than pancake batter. He stirred it leisurely while we talked about new relationships and race and movies. 

Cee threw a piece into the oil and watched it bubble, waited a few more minutes and tried again. This time, satisfied, he placed a few more pieces in the oil- careful not to crowd the pan and lower the temperature. the pieces floated there in the oil, popping occasionally. They began to brown like tanners at the pool, and as they did he flipped them over to complete the process. One by one he pulled them out, the pieces hanging from the fork and excess droplets of oil splashing quietly back into the pan.

Dip. Fry. Turn. Drip. Repeat.

Half an hour later Cee motioned to the food and we began to arrange the table with bowls and plates and glasses of lemonade. 

We finally settled to eat, the slightly charred edges of the corn tortillas (heated on the gas burner) were warm and gave easily as I piled mine with fish and guac and white sauce (despite my aversion to mayonnaise), and cheese, and salsa. 

I gorged, intermittently fixing a child's plate or warming additional tortillas for others at the table. But mostly I gorged as much from hunger as the delightful flavors coalescing on my tongue and true appreciation for Mil's and Cee's hospitality.