Kolli
The kitchen was warm and smelled like my childhood.
Danilo had come downstairs in his black tracksuit, his hair still damp, smiling ear to ear because he had seen the stocking I embroidered for him. He had stood there by the fireplace for a long time, just staring at it, his hand over his mouth. Then he came into the kitchen and said, "At your service, Mr. Pereira."
And I had put him to work.
I washed everything while he dried. Potatoes, beets, carrots, dill, so much dill. He was terrible at washing dill because his hands were so big he crushed it, so I made him do the potatoes instead.
We made the food together.
I showed him how to fold pelmeni, how to pinch the little meat dumplings closed so they looked like little ears. His fingers were huge and clumsy at first, and he kept overfilling them so they burst, and he swore in Portuguese every time one tore.
"Merda!" he said, holding up a broken pelmeni that was leaking pork.
I laughed until my belly hurt.
