Empanada Mama

You can have it all if you can do it all… almost.

“C’mon, kiddos.” It was only the second time saying this in as many minutes. I always start at 7:40, with hopes that we’ll make it out of the driveway before 7:45. My older child waited by the door, casually pacing to pass the seconds. I poured the hot chocolate from the stove into a disposable cup with a lid and held it for a few seconds to make sure it wasn’t too hot.

“B, we gotta go.”
“I know. I’m getting my shoes on.”

We play this game every morning. In truth, it drives me nuts, but I have learned over the years that she simply can’t- and won’t- be rushed. In fact, it makes it worse. We piled into the car at a respectable 7:44. I turned to hand her the hot chocolate. “I’ll pick you both up, drop you off, and then E and I will drive up to Des Moines for the dentist.” There was silence as I put my key into the ignition. Just for a split second, it seemed like something was off, but then, these last moments of the morning routine were always a blur. I was just second guessing a moment, I was sure. I turned the key. Nothing. Panicked children. I had just worked on the car last night, replacing the headlights and the air filter. It was cold and things on a sixteen-year-old car have a way of sticking. Time had gotten away from me and I had had to finish it in the dark, feeling my way around. I still had some grease stuck under my nails and a few of the scrapes up my arms were still prevalent this morning.

I jumped out of the driver’s seat and popped open the hood. In minutes, I took the filter back out and re-installed it, thinking maybe there had just been a gap. I turned the key again. Not a sound.

“Go back inside and bundle up. You two will have to walk to school, but I’ll figure this out before this afternoon.”

“Ok. We can do that. I’m sorry your car won’t start.”

“Stupid Champagne! We’re stuck out here in this damn cornfield. We don’t have a way to get another car!”

My children’s reactions were predictable; one ultra-compliant in a crisis, the other as frustrated as myself. “We don’t need a new car. I didn’t do anything major last night, so it has to be a simple fix. The battery is only six months old. Make sure you have your gloves- I want to see them. I’ll email the attendance office to tell them why you’re late. Please text me when you get to school so I know you made it ok.”

They started on their way. I sat on the couch, hands still frozen, and searched YouTube for possible solutions. Maybe the MAF needed to be replaced… search up what an MAF is. I stood under the open hood, my nose numb and dripping at this point from the single digit temperature. I checked and wiggled wires. I blew bits of old leaves out of the crevices. Champagne (that is the name of my 2009 Ford Escape) and I were having a stare down, and I was looking directly into her old soul. I refused to accept defeat. I dug out the OBD code reader my father had given me when we had moved to Northern Michigan two moves before. Dead end. The reader can only work if it can get power from the car. Wait a minute… that had to be it. It’s true I had just replaced the battery in July, but clearly there was something preventing it from working. Something told me to lift the red rubber protector. Somehow, the screw had become loose enough that the connector wasn’t engaging. Bingo! I dug into my coat pocket and fished out the flathead screwdriver. It took only 30 seconds of labor. Could it really be that easy? I managed to both say a prayer and drop a couple F-bombs on the short journey to the driver’s seat. Turn. Crank. Success! Champagne would live to drive another day. Without even shutting the garage door, I pulled out and tracked down my children, who had still not made it to school. Today I would not be a failure in their eyes, which is always the goal, right?

Yesterday I had arranged my schedule to reheat and deliver the empanadas we had spent the weekend making for a school project to their Spanish classes. There was enough music to learn and computer work to work around to fill the day. 80 empanadas, split in half, separated by flavor, reheated, and hand delivered at the start of 4^th and 7^th period. “Alright, Mom, what did you make so they can take credit and get a good grade?” The school secretary had laughed as she said it at the first delivery. But I’m not one of those moms; well, to my children I am not “Mom” at all. I am somehow, still, always “Mama.” I had made sure they had a hand in everything (and because of that it likely took twice as long to complete), with the exception of handling the raw chicken, because they just couldn’t tolerate it. That’s fair… does anyone like handling raw chicken? After all parts had been prepared, the three of us had worked as a well-oiled machine. E on the tortilla press, B filling, folding, and sealing, and I carefully dropping into the hot oil, turning, and draining.

It is impossible for me to think of even one empanada and not be reminded of a particular day shared with my long-time friend, Tiffany. It’s the sort of memory that, no matter how long it’s been since we’ve caught up, one of us can say, “Empanada Mamas,” and it is the perfect response to something that would otherwise have no adequate response.

Half a lifetime ago; we were in our early 20s and had already been struggling artists in New York for five or six years. Back then, we both sang at an Italian restaurant that was known for its opera nights. This wasn’t Macaroni Grill style, where the waiters sang O Mio Babbino Caro between collecting payments and bussing tables. A mix of P.T. Barnum and Fagin from Oliver Twist, the owner of Caffé Taci was an opera fanatic. Many of the guests were opera fanatics. We sang often and we sang everything. Performances started at 9:00pm, and in those years, it wasn’t uncommon to continue well into the wee hours of the morning, and on occasion, until the sun came up. If you stuck around long enough, dinner or breakfast out was an added bonus. Coloratura, lyrico-spinto, dramatic; it didn’t really matter. If you could sing the notes, it was in your best interest to know the music. Requests from obscure Verdi or Donizetti works could mean an extra $20 or $40 thrown into the tip basket. It was commonplace for industry people to come after performances or when visiting from out of town for auditions as well. Conductors, agents, stars from the Metropolitan Opera would all visit from time to time. There was always the dream of getting picked up by one of them. It did happen, too. Tiffany and I were the youngest of the regular troupe, having met there when were we 18 and 19 years old.

One night, two older gentlemen walked in and eventually introduced themselves to us. They were associated with a foundation that helped young opera singers further their careers. It was June and the deadline for the scholarships had just passed, but they were so impressed with the two of us that they wanted to help. After a few years at this, we had both heard the stories from people like this before. They wanted to help, we’d give them our information, and then we’d never hear from them again. We carried on a conversation with a mix of skepticism and hope. The foundation they mentioned was a legitimate one and their names were on the website. They arranged a date and time just a few days later for us to come down and sing for them, officially, at a midtown studio. We glanced at each other. This could actually be good.

A few days later, I met Tiffany at her apartment so we could travel together. We were usually broke- and today was no exception. Together, we had seventeen dollars. The studio was three blocks west of the subway. A taxi would have been nice, but that was out of the question today. We started on our journey in the 90° heat. She, sensibly, had a bag with her heels, folder, and makeup in it. I carried my folder loose and stuck my phone and some folded bills into the left side of my bra. The thick station air at 103^rd street smelled of urine and Chinese food. I didn’t want creases in the backs of my legs for the audition, so I stood in the nearly empty car. After years of wearing 3” heels nearly every day, I was a veteran at balancing in the subway. We emerged in midtown and made our way west in the blazing heat. A mismatched duo still with dreams; her in a long skirt and long-sleeved wrap-around, me in black “dress shorts,” a blue frilled top, oversized sunglasses and gold heels. Both, doe-eyed and polite with flawless eyeliner.

We sang our hearts out. After nearly an hour with the people, we were told we were great, but since the deadline had already passed, there wasn’t much they could do. They encouraged us to apply next year. An older woman asked why I hadn’t worn a dress. I responded that I didn’t have one. We smiled, shook their hands, and stepped onto the elevator, rolling our eyes. This sort of thing had happened so many times before. Because Caffé Taci was a restaurant and people were usually drinking a lot of wine, I was always afraid people would like us less when they were sober. That had happened several times already with some bigger named agents and directors of young artist programs. Their effusive words and two dollars would get us on the subway.

The smell and heat of the city slapped us in the face as we exited the building. It had happened again. Tiffany burst into her unmistakable laugh. I soon followed suit. “Well, what now?” There we were, standing in Hell’s Kitchen at rush hour, over 60 blocks from home, with thirteen dollars between us.

“Let’s get something to eat.”

“We have thirteen dollars.”

“We can walk home.”

I looked down at my purple toes against the grit of the pavement. “Ok. Let’s do it.”

She knew midtown better than I did. We wandered around until we found Empanada Mama’s. At $4 each, we managed to get two empanadas and beer, which we split, and have enough for a small tip. We looked around at the other customers, wondering if they were in such dire straits as us. Could people even tell it about us? Still young enough that many of our same-age peers were just starting to piece together two or three arias, we could both sing most of them under the table, and for hours, too. Why was it always so hard? Were we really just waiting for some ship to come in? A pirate ship, maybe.

After about 45 minutes, we started on our way back uptown. Slowly, this time, with no real purpose or urgency. After over an hour or so, we made it to Tiffany’s first.

“See you Friday?”

“Of course. Roy (Innis) wants to hear Otello.”

“I still gotta learn Parlez-moi d’amour for Paul Cardin. He gave me a CD but I don’t have anything to play it on.”

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“You wanna come in and watch Jeopardy?”

“Yeah.”

Flash forward to now. Our lives took different paths, but we’re still in touch. Many of the old regulars who made their requests have passed on. I think of my days, always a mix of mothering, of my art, of trying to fix it all. Everything rooted in resourcefulness and little glimmers of hopes and dreams that propel me forward each morning. Do I have it all? Well, I have everything that I can possibly control. I managed to get an education. Decades later, I am still pursuing my art, I have two beautiful and amazing children. We’re definitely not rich, but I manage to keep us afloat, healthy, and with a roof over our heads. I have a lot. One thing I have learned in life is that so much is dependent on the actions of others. And those you can’t control. A shoulder to rest on, an extended hand, a leg up. The absence of these things makes life more difficult, harsh. It also demands that you get stronger. The funny thing is, the stronger you get, the less people think you need help or care.

How does she do it? How do any of us?