Like Water for Chocolate

by Laura Esquivel

  In the North, he accepted the notes issued in the capital, at low value, of course, and so he spent the entire revolution, until he wound up a millionaire. But the important thing is that thanks to him Rosaura would be able to enjoy the finest, most exquisite fabric on her wedding night.

  Tita stood as if in a trance, staring at the whiteness of the sheet; only for a few seconds, but long enough to cause a sort of blindness. Wherever she looked she saw the color white. When she looked at Rosaura, who was writing out some invitations, she saw only a snowy ghost. But she showed nothing, and no one noticed her condition.

  She didn’t want another rebuke from Mama Elena. When the Lobos arrived to give Rosaura her wedding present, Tita tried to sharpen her senses to figure out who was greeting her, since to her they looked like porcelain ghosts covered by white sheets. Fortunately Paquita’s shrill voice gave Tita the solution to her problem and she was able to greet them without much of a problem.

  Later, when she accompanied the Lobos to the entrance of the ranch, she noted that she had never seen such a night before; to her it was all a blinding whiteness.

  Now she was afraid the same thing would happen again, for she was unable to concentrate on making the icing for the cake, no matter how hard she tried. The whiteness of the granulated sugar frightened her. She felt powerless against it, feeling that at any moment the white color might seize her mind, dragging along those snow-white images from her childhood, May-time images of being taken all in white, to offer white flowers to the Virgin. She entered the church in a row of girls all dressed in white and approached the altar, which was covered with white candles and flowers, illuminated by a heavenly white light streaming through the stained-glass window of the white church. Never had she entered that church, not once, without dreaming of the day she would enter it on the arm of a man. She had to block out not just this thought but all the memories that caused her so much pain: she had to finish the frosting for her sister’s wedding cake. Making a supreme effort, she began to prepare it.

  FOR THE FONDANT ICING:

  800 grams granulated sugar

  60 drops of lime juice plus enough water to dissolve the sugar

  TO PREPARE THE FONDANT:

  Combine the sugar and water in a pan and heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture comes to a boil. Strain into another pan and return to the heat; add the lime juice and cook until it reaches the soft-ball stage, wiping the edge of the pan with a damp cloth periodically to prevent the sugar from crystallizing. When the mixture reaches that stage, pour it into a damp pan, sprinkle with water, and allow to cool slightly.

  After it cools, beat with a wooden spoon until creamy.

  To ice the cake, add a tablespoon of milk to the fondant, heat until it softens, add a drop of red food color, and frost only the top part of the cake with the fondant icing.

  Nacha realized something was wrong with Tita when she asked if Nacha was going to add the red food color to the icing.

  “Child, I’ve already added it, can’t you see how pink it is?”

  “No . . .”

  “Go to bed, child, I’ll finish the meringue icing. Only the pan knows how the boiling soup feels, but I know how you feel, so stop crying, you’re getting the meringue watery, and it won’t set up properly—go now, go.”

  Nacha covered Tita with kisses and pushed her out of the kitchen. Tita didn’t explain the reason for those new tears, but now they had been shed, and they had changed the consistency of the meringue. Now it would be twice as hard to get it to form peaks. All that mattered was to finish the meringue as fast as she could so she could go to sleep. The meringue icing requires ten egg whites and five hundred grams of sugar, which are beaten together until they reach the coarse-thread stage.

  When she finished beating the meringue, it occurred to Nacha to lick some of the icing off her finger to see if Tita’s tears had affected the flavor. No, the flavor did not seem to have been affected; yet without knowing why, Nacha was suddenly overcome with an intense longing. One after another, she thought back on all the wedding banquets she had prepared for the De la Garza family, ever cherishing the illusion that the next wedding would be her own. At eighty-five, there was no longer much point in crying, lamenting the wedding banquet she’d been waiting for that had never come, or the wedding she had never had, even though she had had a fiance. Oh yes, she had! But the mama of Mama Elena had sent him packing. Since then, all she could do was enjoy other people’s weddings, as she had been doing for years without grumbling. So why was she complaining now? There must be some joke in all this, but she couldn’t find it. She frosted the cake with the meringue icing as well as she could and went to her room, a terrible aching in her heart. She cried all night, and the next morning she didn’t have the strength to help with the wedding.

  Tita would have given anything to change places with Nacha. Tita not only had to attend the wedding ceremony, despite her feelings, she also had to make sure her face did not reveal the slightest emotion. She thought she could manage it, as long as her eyes didn’t meet Pedro’s. That would shatter her pretense of calm and composure.

  She was aware that she, not her sister Rosaura, was the center of attention. The wedding guests were not just performing a social act, they wanted to observe her suffering; but she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. No. She heard, as she passed, the whispers in the church, and she felt each comment like a stab in her back.

  “Have you seen Tita? The poor thing, her sister is going to marry her sweetheart! I saw them one day in the plaza in the village, holding hands. They looked so happy.”

  “You don’t say! And Paquita says that at High Mass one day she saw Pedro passing Tita a love letter, perfumed and everything!”

  “They say they’re going to live in the same house! If I were Mama Elena, I wouldn’t allow it!”

  “I don’t see how she can. Look how much gossip there is already!”

  Tita didn’t care for these comments at all. She was not meant for the loser’s role. She would put on a triumphant expression. Like a great actress, she played her role with dignity, trying to think about anything but the wedding march and the priest’s words, the knot and the rings.

  Her mind bore her back to one day when she was nine, when she had played hooky from school with some boys from the village. She wasn’t supposed to play with boys, but she was sick of her sisters’ games. They went to the Rio Grande, to see who could swim across it the fastest. She had been the winner—how proud she had been.

  One quiet Sunday in the village she had scored another of her great triumphs. She was fourteen. She and her sisters were taking a carriage ride when some boys set off a firecracker. The frightened horses bolted. When they came to the edge of the village, they ran wild and the driver could not control them.

  Tita shoved him aside and brought the four horses back under control singlehandedly. When four men from the village galloped up to rescue the sisters, they were amazed at Tita’s daring feat.

  The villagers gave her a heroine’s reception.

  She kept her mind on these and other memories like them in order to maintain a little contented-cat smile throughout the ceremony, until it was kissing time and she had to congratulate her sister. Pedro, who was standing with Rosaura, said to Tita:

  “And me, aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

  “Yes, of course. I hope you will be very happy.”

  Pedro, holding her much closer than convention allowed, took advantage of this unique opportunity to whisper in Tita’s ear:

  “I am sure I will be, since through this marriage I have gained what I really wanted: the chance to be near you, the woman I really love. . . .”

  For Tita, these words were like a fresh breeze fanning embers that had been about to die. She had had to hide her feelings for so many months that her expression now changed dramatically, and her relief and happiness were obvious. It was as if all her inner joy, which had nearly been extinguished, had suddenly been rekindled by
Pedro’s warm breath upon her neck, the hot touch of his hands upon her back, his chest pressed impulsively against her breasts. . . . She could have stayed in his arms forever, but a look from her mother made her pull away in a hurry. Mama Elena came over to Tita:

  “What did Pedro say to you?”

  “Nothing, Mami.”

  “Don’t try to trick me, I’m wise to your games. I’ve been through them before. Don’t play innocent with me. You’ll be sorry if I ever catch you around Pedro again.”

  After Mama Elena’s threats, Tita tried to keep as much distance as she could between herself and Pedro. But it was impossible for her to wipe that smile of sheer satisfaction off her face. The wedding now had an entirely new significance for her.

  Seeing Pedro and Rosaura go from table to table chatting with the guests, watching them dance the waltz or cut the cake no longer bothered Tita a bit. She knew now that it was true: Pedro loved her. It was killing her waiting for the dinner to end to run tell Nacha everything. She could hardly wait until everyone was done with the cake so she could leave the table. Carreno’s manual of etiquette said she couldn’t leave until then, so she kept her head in the clouds and gobbled down her piece of cake. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice that all around her something very strange was taking place. The moment they took their first bite of the cake, everyone was flooded with a great wave of longing. Even Pedro, usually so proper, was having trouble holding back his tears. Mama Elena, who hadn’t shed a single tear over her husband’s death, was sobbing silently. But the weeping was just the first symptom of a strange intoxication—an acute attack of pain and frustration—that seized the guests and scattered them across the patio and the grounds and in the bathrooms, all of them wailing over lost love. Everyone there, every last person, fell under this spell, and not very many of them made it to the bathrooms in time—those who didn’t joined the collective vomiting that was going on all over the patio. Only one person escaped: the cake had no effect on Tita. The minute she finished eating it, she left the party. She urgently wanted to tell Nacha that she had been right in saying Pedro loved only her. Envisioning the happiness that would spread across Nacha’s face, she didn’t notice that with every step the scenes of misery around her, pathetic and horrifying, were growing worse.

  Rosaura, retching, abandoned her place of honor.

  She struggled to control her nausea, but it was too much for her! Her only concern was to keep her wedding dress from being fouled by the degradations of her relatives and friends; but as she crossed the patio she slipped and every inch of her dress ended up coated with vomit. She was swept away in a raging rotting river for several yards; then she couldn’t hold back anymore, and she spewed out great noisy mouthfuls of vomit, like an erupting volcano, right before Pedro’s horrified eyes. Rosaura complained bitterly about the way her wedding had been ruined, and no power on earth could convince her that Tita had not added something to the cake.

  She spent the whole night moaning, in such torment that the thought of the sheets that had taken so long to embroider was driven completely out of her mind. Pedro quickly proposed they leave the consummation of the nuptials for another night. But it was months before Pedro finally found himself obliged to do it, and then only because Rosaura dared to point out to him that she was now completely recovered. That night, realizing that he wouldn’t be able to ignore his conjugal duty forever, Pedro knelt by the bed, on which the nuptial sheet was spread, and offered up this prayer:

  “Lord, this is not lust or lewdness but to make a child to serve you.”

  Tita never dreamed that it had taken so long for the ill-fated marriage to be consummated. It didn’t make any difference to her whether it was after the wedding or any other day.

  Tita was more worried about saving her skin than about anything else. The night of the wedding reception she had gotten a tremendous hiding from Mama Elena, like no beating before or since. She spent two weeks in bed recovering from her bruises. What motivated such a monstrous punishment was Mama Elena’s conviction that Tita, in league with Nacha, had deliberately ruined Rosaura’s wedding by mixing an emetic into the cake. Tita was never able to convince her that she had only added one extra ingredient to the cake, the tears she had shed while preparing it. Nor could Nacha testify on her behalf: on the day of the wedding, when Tita went looking for her, she found Nacha lying dead, her eyes wide open, medicinal leaves upon her temples, a picture of her fiance clutched in her hands.

  TO BE CONTINUED . . .

  Next month’s recipe:

  Quail in Rose Petal Sauce

  CHAPTER THREE

  March

  Quail in Rose Petal

  Sauce

  INGREDIENTS:

  12 roses, preferably red

  12 chestnuts

  2 teaspoons butter

  2 teaspoons cornstarch

  2 drops attar of roses

  2 tablespoons anise

  2 tablespoons honey

  2 cloves garlic

  6 quail

  1 pitaya

  PREPARATION:

  Remove the petals carefully from the roses, trying not to prick your fingers, for not only are the little wounds painful but the petals could soak up blood that might alter the flavor of the dish and even produce dangerous chemical reactions.

  How could Tita remember such a thing, shaken as she was to get a bouquet of roses, and from Pedro besides. It was the first deep emotion she had felt since her sister’s wedding, when she had heard Pedro confirm his love, trying to hide it from everyone’s prying eyes. Mama Elena’s eyes were as sharp as ever and she knew what would happen if Pedro and Tita ever got the chance to be alone. As a result, she had resorted to staging the most amazing acts of prestidigitation, always managing to pull off her trick of keeping them out of each other’s sight and reach, until today. She had let one little thing slip past her: with Nacha dead, Tita was the best qualified of all the women in the house to fill the vacant post in the kitchen, and in there flavors, smells, textures, and the effects they could have were beyond Mama Elena’s iron command.

  Tita was the last link in a chain of cooks who had been passing culinary secrets from generation to generation since ancient times, and she was considered the finest exponent of the marvelous art of cooking. Naming her official ranch cook was a popular decision with everyone. Tita was pleased to receive the post, in spite of the sorrow she felt at losing Nacha.

  Her unfortunate death had left Tita in a very deep depression. With Nacha dead she was completely alone. It was as if her real mother had died. To help her get over it, Pedro thought it would be nice to bring her a bouquet of roses to celebrate her first year as ranch cook. But Rosaura—who was expecting her first child—did not agree, and when she saw him walk in carrying a bouquet for Tita, instead of her, she burst into tears and ran from the room.

  With just a look Mama Elena sent Tita away to get rid of the roses. Now, too late, Pedro realized his fool-hardiness. Again with a look, Mama Elena informed him there was still time to repair the damage. Such a look it was that he excused himself and went off to look for Rosaura. Tita clasped the roses to her chest so tightly that when she got to the kitchen, the roses, which had been mostly pink, had turned quite red from the blood that was flowing from Tita’s hands and breasts. She had to think fast what to do with them. They were beautiful. She couldn’t just throw them in the trash; in the first place, she’d never been given flowers before, and second, they were from Pedro. All at once she seemed to hear Nacha’s voice dictating a recipe, a prehispanic recipe involving rose petals. Tita had nearly forgotten it because it called for pheasants, which they didn’t raise on the ranch.

  The one bird they did have was quail. She decided to revise the recipe slightly, just so she could use the flowers.

  Without a second thought, she went to the patio to catch the quail. When she had caught six, she carried them into the kitchen and got ready to kill them—which would be hard, having fed and cared
for them for so long.

  With a deep breath, she took hold of the first one and twisted its neck, as she had seen Nacha do so often, but she used too little force to kill the poor quail, which went running pitifully around the kitchen, its head hanging to one side. She was horrified! She realized that you can’t be weak when it comes to killing: you have to be strong or it just causes more sorrow. It occurred to her that she could use her mother’s strength right now. Mama Elena was merciless, killing with a single blow. But then again not always. For Tita she had made an exception; she had been killing her a little at a time since she was a child, and she still hadn’t quite finished her off. Pedro and Rosaura’s marriage had left Tita broken in both heart and in mind, like the quail. To spare the quail the pain she felt, Tita moved sharply and decisively, finishing him off as an act of mercy. With the others it was easier. She just pretended that each quail had a soft-boiled egg stuck in its crop and that she was delivering it from this suffering, mercifully, by giving its neck a good twist. As a child she would have chosen death over those soft-boiled eggs she was made to eat. Mama Elena forced them on her. She would feel her throat tighten, so tight she couldn’t swallow any kind of food, until her mother gave her a smack that miraculously loosened the knot in her throat; then the egg slid down without any problem. Feeling calmer, she had no difficulty in completing the next steps.

  So skillful was she that it seemed Nacha herself was in Tita’s body doing all those things: dry-plucking the birds, removing the viscera, getting them ready for frying.

  After the quail are plucked and dressed, their feet are pulled together and tied so that the bird keeps a nice shape after being browned in butter and sprinkled with salt and pepper to taste.