Maria Herminia Matos has lived in the same apartment
for 39 years. There are not specific features that define the place. A
coutryard in the back holds tiny garden beds built into concrete. There is a yard (patio) where I sit to read below the citrus trees and watch the ants rasp the flesh on my
arm, digging for food. There is a piano; there is an odd, pink, toilet-like
thing in the bathroom that I assume is only for woman. There are tile floors,
and every wall is plastered with her daughters’ paintings.
Mariherminia' speaks softly and twitters, high-pitched, like a song-bird. I am continually admonished by her for my lack of cleanliness. New rules have become integral parts of my daily life: wearing slippers (pantuflas); washing my hands when I touch my slippers; washing my hands when I consider touching my slippers; washing dishes in specific orders (cups, plates, silverware, pans, counters). All this to great applause when done correctly ("he's learning!") and dramatic cries of "NO!" when I forget. The daughters deride her rule ridden household, yet they too are part of the chorus which guides my conduct building a cacophonous symphony to alert me of my ill-doings.
Of course, I am now accostumed to their songs (The "Wrong Dish Towel" requiem in Bb Minor), and I find joy in the process. Their criticisms are not reserved for me but compose the fabric of a household full to bursting with intelligent, indpendent women. Critiques are given and recieved with equal joy, just as the laughter that follows is given and recieved. The result: perfect harmony in the kitchen. No dishes await doing, and nobody need wonder if the spice on their eggs is grime from the guest's pantuflas.
The only problem is that I am not yet perfectly integrated into their routine and am prone to fits of self-consciousness. The criticism that I throw back at myself, however, does not last for long and I am soon reassimilating into the mix, stirring a simmering pan of beef for arancini or pounding arepas to the perfect shape and thickness. In this house, I am recieving help, advice and affection without limits and if I for a moment feel poorly, it only a desire to give back with the same ardor with which I recieve, and my growing ponch hangs as proof of my endowment.
Of course, I am now accostumed to their songs (The "Wrong Dish Towel" requiem in Bb Minor), and I find joy in the process. Their criticisms are not reserved for me but compose the fabric of a household full to bursting with intelligent, indpendent women. Critiques are given and recieved with equal joy, just as the laughter that follows is given and recieved. The result: perfect harmony in the kitchen. No dishes await doing, and nobody need wonder if the spice on their eggs is grime from the guest's pantuflas.
The only problem is that I am not yet perfectly integrated into their routine and am prone to fits of self-consciousness. The criticism that I throw back at myself, however, does not last for long and I am soon reassimilating into the mix, stirring a simmering pan of beef for arancini or pounding arepas to the perfect shape and thickness. In this house, I am recieving help, advice and affection without limits and if I for a moment feel poorly, it only a desire to give back with the same ardor with which I recieve, and my growing ponch hangs as proof of my endowment.
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