Oven and Alter

It’s Mother’s Day. Abuelita is starting a fire over the stove. Leifer and Abuelito are watching huayno music videos on TV. The boys are on their tablets, and Lucca is napping in bed.

This morning, I walked to the Catholic Church alone. The doors are only open on Sunday mornings. When I arrived, they were setting up for mass. I took a seat in a pew and sat silently. The church is large—I wondered how much of it fills during service.

Later, Aida brought over ten rocoto peppers to the batán to make ají salsa. Abuelita had found them on the ground and was upset, wondering why the boys had pulled them off the plant before they turned yellow. I hadn’t seen them do it.

“Yo puedo,” I said to Aida, who works with Abuelita and Abuelito six days a week. She first rolled the stone over the peppers to crack them, then removed the stems and seeds. I helped.

She added a bit of water from a nearby bucket and began rocking the batán back and forth. The stone ground the peppers into a paste. Then she let me try. The rock was heavy but smooth. The motion felt like driving—lifting the left hand, then the right. Aida scraped the paste back to the center as I continued. Back and forth. Abuelita seemed amused that I wanted to try. Afterward, I washed my hands with soap, then rubbed two lime halves over them and washed again. Still, I felt the burn. I’m tempted to try rocoto.

Later, the boys, Leifer, and I left the casita in search of ingredients for a yellow cake. We already had brown sugar, flour, condensed milk, and baking powder. We needed butter and eggs. The boys brought their scooters—they love the hills in the plaza.

The first store was closed, so we tried another across from their school. They had eggs and Selló de Oro—a butter used for baking.

Back home, Aida and I started the cake. She sifted the flour twice to remove clumps. Then we cracked the eggs, separating yolks and whites. I began mixing the yolks while she combined butter with two teacups of brown sugar. She mixed and mixed, seeking a smooth consistency. I resolved then to bring my hand mixer back with me to Peru. We weren’t just combining ingredients—we were changing the consistency. The sugar couldn’t be grainy. As I continued to mix, I wondered if we could cut corners and what difference that makes. I whipped the egg whites while Aida kept mixing the butter and sugar, occasionally dipping in her hand to test the texture. It finally became a smooth sauce. Then she added the yolks, followed by alternating additions of flour, milk, and egg whites. I mixed it all together. Flour leapt from the bowl onto my black pants. I kept going.

Aida lit the gas oven with a match and set the dial in between the min and max settings. We poured the batter into a floured pan and waited for the oven to heat. We placed a chair in front of the oven door to ensure it stayed closed—and to keep the boys from opening it. The oven sits on the ground.

While we worked, the boys came to the table, tasting everything with their fingers. Leifer was setting up a TV in the living room. I looked forward to watching something together, all of us, instead of being divided by our devices.

By the end of the day, I’m always exhausted. I don’t read to the boys before bed anymore. I shower, curl up under the blankets, and read a book on my Kindle.

At breakfast, I told Enzo we’d be going back to California.
“When?” he asked.
“In three weeks. But Dad can’t come with us.”
“Why?”
“He needs his papers.”
“Papers? … Can I get new toys?”

He jumped to the next subject. I don’t think he can grasp it until the moment is upon him.

We took my parents to the regional airport. The five of us traveled together in a combi for 45 minutes. We woke before sunrise. The airport was small—just one flight to Lima per day.

We ordered three Americanos from the little café inside and waited for the check-in counter to open. We payed thirty soles, it felt extravagant. A bus pulled up, full of American tourists. They were dressed in hiking boots and clothing, and wide-brimmed hats. I was curious. I asked one where they were headed. “Cusco,” she said. I rarely see tourists here. Even though I’m on a tourist visa, I don’t feel like one of them. I’m trying to make a life here. I’ve changed in the three months since arriving. Peru is starting to feel like my home.