I’m sitting on the counter, conducting the solution to the problem set I’ve been listening to into my slate, when my zizi’s dripping ladle swings under my nose. I pull out my earphones and set the chalk down flat to pause. Somewhat shyly, I meet my zizi’s waiting eyes.
“Thank you. You put the celery in with the onions, correct, dear?”
“Yes, Zizi,” I say, scooting away from the stove as my brother plops a handful of potato chunks into the now-gurgling chowder, not even pretending to hide his glee.
“Would you stop that?” I say.
“Stop what?”
“Trying to scald me with clam juice.”
“You don’t like how I’m putting them in, next time you can chop them all up and do it yourself.”
“I will. And you can shuck all the clams.”
He makes a face. I make one back.
“Kids. Crusa, add the carrots, Camillo, why are not all the potat’s cut up?! These are too big. I ask my boy to do it because it is such hard work, but I should never ask a boy for this.”
“What?”
“Milo. Who wants to eat a whole potat’ in one bite, huh? That’s not nice to eat. You want to do that? Nobody wants to do that. What are you thinking?”
“I like it chunky,” I offer.
“Crusa. Babies and old people will eat this. Do you think they can swallow an entire potat’ whole?”
“No.”
“Ok then.”
“Give me the knife, Zizi. I’ll finish them.”
“No, I don’t want you to do it. It’s your brother’s to do. You did enough. Let Camillo fix it.”
“Really, Zizi, it’s fine, I don’t mind-”
“Crusa. No.”
I bite the side of my tongue. “Milo needs to go bring the peels to the barn and throw out the clam shells for me. I don’t want to, they’re heavy. And kind of gross.”
My aunt sighs, “Fine. Do you hear your sister? She is very generous to you. You are lucky to have a twin sister. A normal sister would not be so good to you. Now go, my boy. You clean up the shells and the peels and give your zizi a kiss and then you are done.”
“Alright,” Milo grumbles, picking up the sack with the shells. With his free hand, he swings the other sack, full of potato peels, over his shoulder, and, being out of hands, kicks open the back door and clanks out into the yard.
Shaking her head, my zizi says, “Now, let that cook until the carrots and potat’s get soft, not like you did with the onions, though. They don’t work like onions. Onions are weird that they work like that. Later, remind me. Then we throw in the clams, right at the end or they get tough, with maybe some more herbs or salt or pepper, I don’t know, you have to taste it once it all comes together. And then you’re done.”
She gives me a big smile, spreading out her arms with a potato in one hand and the meat cleaver in the other. I burst out laughing, and her eyes crinkle. This is why I love being in her kitchen. Why I’m glad to be the one of us that lasts the longest here. I think it’s my favorite place, actually.
You just have to watch your mouth.
And your fingers. And your toes. All body parts, really.