Las Christmas Read Free Page B

during Spanish class we read stories of miraculous generosity and goodwill.
    Late one Tuesday afternoon after school, we heard the wailing break out across the road, and the next day Meesee Torres made us all line up and walk up the hill to Tata’s house to pay our respects. We filed into their living room, past the open coffin, and each of us placed a single flower in the vase Meesee had brought, then filed out again. What astonished me was how small Don Miguel looked, nested in white satin, just a little brown man without those bulging veins of rage at his temples and the heavy hands waiting to hit.
    The next night the
velorio
began. The road was full of jeeps and city cars, and more dressed-up relatives than ever before spilled out of the little house. For three days people ate and drank and prayed and partied, laughing and chatting, catching up on old gossip and rekindling ancient family arguments. Now and then someone would have to separate a couple of drunk men preparing to hit out with fists. Several of the women had
ataques,
falling to the ground and tearing their hair and clothing.
    The first night of the
velorio
was also the first night of Hanukkah that year. While Tata went to church with her mother to take part in
rosarios
and novenas and Catholic mysteries I knew nothing about, my family sat in the darkened living room of our house and lit the first candle on the menorah, the one that lights all the others. Gathered around that small glow, my father told the story of the Maccabees who fought off an invading empire, while, across the road, Tata’s family laughed together, making life bigger than death. I remember sitting around the candles, thinking of those ancient Jews hanging in for thirty years to take back their temple, what it took to not give up; and of all the women in the barrio raising children who sometimes died and you never knew who would make it and who wouldn’t, of people setting off for home and maybe meeting death in another jeep along the way. And in the middle of a bad year, a year of too much loss, there were still two big pots of
pasteles
and a house full of music and friends. Life, like the
acueducto,
seemed to be unpredictable, maddening, and sometimes startlingly abundant.
    That night I lay awake for a long time in the dark, listening to life walking toward me. Luís would never come home from Vietnam or would come home crazy, but the war would end someday and most of us would grow up. My father would be fired from the university for protesting that war, and we would be propelled into a new life, but I would find lifelong friends and new visions for myself in an undreamed-of city. Death and celebration, darkness and light, the miraculous star of the Three Kings and the miracle of a lamp burning for eight days on just a drop of oil. So much uncertainty and danger and so much stubborn faith. And somewhere out there in the dark, beyond the voices of Tata’s family still murmuring across the road, the three wise mysterious travelers were already making their way to me, carrying something unknown, precious, strange.

Puerto Rican
Tostones con Mojito

    FRIED PLANTAINS
    Tostones
are served year-round in Puerto Rico, where no party is complete without them. Traditionally, they are pressed with the heel of the hand; modern cooks can find wooden
tostoneras
in Latin American groceries—or even at the San Juan airport.

    Add 2 tablespoons salt to 2 cups water. Set aside. Peel plantains. Cut in rounds about 1½ inches wide. Place slices in salted water for ten minutes. Drain.
    Heat 2 inches of oil in a deep frying pan. The oil should be hot but not smoking.
    Place plantain slices on a slotted spoon and dip into the hot oil. Fry over moderate heat until plantains are soft, about 8 minutes.
    Remove slices from the pan with the slotted spoon onto paper towels. Allow to drain and cool slightly.
    Press fried slices between sheets of waxed paper using a rolling pin or use