Fanfiction: Home Construction 12: Abuela's Recipe
Part 12 of 14 of my BtVS ficlet series, Home Construction.
AN: Today we have Faith/enchilada, possibly the best pairing I’ve ever written. grins Thanks to significantowl and ixtoh for their advice on this one. If you like it, please comment to let me know. :)
Faith knows Christina got stuck with her as a roommate, but she doesn’t hold it against her. The slayers liked the trip to the Bronze just fine, but no one really wants to sleep next to a convicted murderer. The girl is smilin’ like the damn Cheshire Cat, though, and she has been all afternoon. Weird.
“Whatcha grinnin’ about over there?” Faith asks. She tosses her meager amount of clothing and enormous stash of hotel toiletries into a pillowcase, makeshift luggage for their move to the school today.
“I’m cooking dinner tonight,” Christina says, sounding thrilled at the prospect. Faith squints at her, wondering briefly about demonic possession. “Enchiladas,” she says, but she pronounces it with a rolling lilt to her voice: inch-ee-LA-thas, the way the Mexican chicks in Stockton talked.
“I could—” Christina starts to say, then starts over. “You could help, if you want.”
Faith looks at her, surprised. She can’t remember the last time she cooked a meal. “Yeah,” she says. “Sure.”
In the kitchen, Christina digs through the food cabinets and pulls out a huge pile of food. She sets a block of cheese on the counter with what looks like an old-fashioned washboard.
“Great,” she says.
Faith looks at her blankly.
Christina mimes rubbing the cheese on the washboard, with an expression on her sixteen-year-old face that clearly says “you uncultured moron.” Faith’s seen that look a couple thousand times before, so she doesn’t ask any questions. By the time she gets the hang of it, she has a little heap of shredded cheese and four bleeding knuckles.
Christina looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Do the whole block,” she says. “And don’t worry, the blood makes it taste better.” Faith makes a face and Christina laughs. “Mi abuela used to say that. This is her recipe.” She starts chopping onions, the knife making a fast, rhythmic sound as it rises and falls. Faith has to take a break from the cheese to wipe her eyes, but Christina never stops.
By the time Faith has shredded her small mountain of cheese, Christina has a big bowl of gooey-looking stuff in front of her and two big pans going on the stove.
“Ready to fry?” she asks.
Faith makes the face again, and Christina wags a pair of tongs at her, not intimidated. “You’re the helper, you fry,” she says, smiling. She shows Faith the process: tortilla in the hot oil, let it sizzle until it starts to get air bubbles, then flip it over, shake the oil off, then put it in the red sauce, then onto the plate.
“When I was a little girl,” she says, only she says leetle, and it makes Faith smile. “My mom was the helper, and Abuela filled the enchiladas.” inch-ee-LA-thas. “Then after she died, I was the helper. Now I’m doing the filling.” She sounds sad. The only slayers staying at the school now are the ones with no families. Faith’s included in that category, so she just looks down at the tortillas she’s frying, and doesn’t try to talk about it.
She tears the first one, the metal tongs biting into the tender tortillas, ripping gigantic gaping holes right in the middle, where the filling should go. She wants to throw the tongs and leave; she knew she wouldn’t be any good at this. It’s probably the most complicated meal she’s ever cooked. Christina looks over, though, and shrugs.
“I can work with that,” she says, and taps the plate in front of her expectantly.
To her surprise, she gets better at it. She tears more tortillas, but she finds it doesn’t matter. After she sets it on the plate, Christina spoons out the gooey filling, rolls it up tight, then presses the enchilada into the pan, smoothing out the top with her knuckles. When the pan is full, Christina pours more sauce over the top and then layers the top with big handfuls of cheese.
“You were a beautiful helper,” Christina says with a smile. “Abuela would be proud.”
Faith looks down at the pan and smiles. The ripped and torn tortillas are indistinguishable from the rest.