Before placing it on the stack that was building in the cupboard of my new Florida home, I shook the plate like a tambourine, “But, I don’t cook!”
I crumpled the New York Post page that wrapped a chipped green dinner plate. Or, in my case, whatever was in my hands at the moment. Except, of course, she wasn’t Italian, and neither was I. It’s a short cooking demo on a morning show.” Alma shook her pinched hand like a stereotypical Italian grandmother. “Porfa, this is not going to take all week. “¿Qué es esto?” I waved my hand like a hostess showing someone to their table. I narrowed my eyes and glared at my best friend, Alma.
And come on, Miriam, what else are you doing?” “¡Basta, Alma! I told you I’m not doing the show.” I accentuated each word with the knife I held in my hand before I stabbed the packing tape and sliced open box number five of forty-eight.
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