10-Min Story: The Spanish Kitchen
They had sent her away. The city was a strange place, not in a bad way. It was different here. The floodwater less fishy, the women on the street – significantly more so.
Espanya was the name of the street and the people who lived there acted as if they were in the peninsula itself.
Lola, este, Abuela, called here helpers alila or servant/slave/cheap labor.
“Ano, adios patria adorada?” Beth stammered, scratching her head. The alila looked blankly at her.
“Iha, the alila don’t speak Kastila,” Abuela admonished, “The mestizos always thought that was beneath them to speak Kastila to the help.”
Beth drew back, what was she doing here? She slowly inched her way out of the kitchen, hungry as she was – for food, for vocabulary, for family, for acceptance. Where was she to go?
“Where HAVE you been, Iha?” Abuela, incredulous without fail. At what, no one ever knew.
But Beth had already left and Abuela was speaking into the past that she vehemently refused to leave behind.