A memoir, in twelve chapters
Un—translated
Field notes from an relación interracial(untranslated),
told slowly.
The book began as a paragraph scribbled on the back of a receipt the night Antonio's mother asked, in Italian, why our eggs were arguing on the plate. It grew, slowly, the way a relationship grows when neither of you is paying attention to the growing — into pages, then into a shoebox, then into a manuscript. It is a memoir of the in-between. Of two mothers on two phones. Of navidad(untranslated) on the twenty-fourth and ferragosto(untranslated) in the middle of August. Of the days the languages worked and the days they did not.
Both of our mothers learned to use WhatsApp the same year.
— from chapter 02
- Meeting in the wrong language003
- Two mothers, two phones015
- The kitchen is contested territory027
- Holidays that don't line up037
- Travel home047
- Money, in two grammars057
- The wedding we haven't planned067
- Race in Richmond077
- Italian he's losing, Spanish she's losing087
- What we are building anyway097
- The friends105
- The car113
When the book opens
Numbered I through CCC. Signed by Kirsten — and by Antonio, if he is in the room.
From the same kitchen
Two Drawers.
A Honduran-Italian kitchen, told slowly. Sixty pages.
The recipe book that came out of the same apartment. Sofrito and parmigiano. Tamales and ragù. Two drawers, one kitchen towel between them.
Read about Two Drawers