Seven Year Switch (2010) by Claire Cook Read Free Book Online Page A

it away.
    They watched my every move. “Don’t we look pretty today, honey,” Ethel said when I finished rubbing. “New boyfriend?”
    I could feel myself blush. I flipped my hair out from behind my ears and caught the scent of my Suave Tropical Coconut Shampoo.
    â€œAuthentic Mexican corn tortillas,” I said, “are made with a specially treated corn flour called masa harina.” I hadn’t been able to get my hands on fresh masa, which needs to be used right away, but I’d found some dried masa at the third supermarket I tried.
    Making tortillas from scratch turned out to be a lot harder than it sounded. We added water to the masa harina and made dough, then divided the dough into small balls. I picked one up and flattened it with a rolling pin on a cutting board sprinkledwith more masa. I peeled it off and tried to maneuver the paper-thin circle into one of the prehistoric skillets that had been heating on the stove.
    The knuckles of both hands grazed the bottom of the skillet. “Shit,” I yelled, as I threw the tortilla-to-be up in the air.
    Several women went into Florence Nightingale mode and circled around me.
    â€œAre we in Italy now?” T-shirt Tom said. “Get it? Pizza?”
    Good thing I’d brought store-bought tortillas for backup. The class kicked into gear while I ran my hands under cold water.
    One of the women scraped my aborted tortilla off the counter and started rolling out another masa ball. The others divided into groups. I’d found fresh asparagus on sale and steamed it last night, so one group cut it into one-inch pieces and added goat cheese and chopped cilantro. Another group shredded cooked chicken and mixed in black beans and tomato.
    Ethel and her friends tore open the bags of Trader Joe’s Lite Mexican Blend shredded cheese, and another woman snipped open the packets of Wholly Guacamole. The class formed a long line and took turns spooning ingredients onto the tortillas. Then they moved on to the other frying pans, working quickly and efficiently, as if they’d been working together at a quesadilla factory most of their lives.
    â€œI got one!” the woman attempting to make tortillas finally yelled. She flipped her masa-made tortilla onto a paper plate and held it up for everyone to see. The class applauded, even though it was shaped like an amoeba and riddled with holes.
    I turned off the water and blotted my hands carefully with scratchy brown paper towels. They might be good for the environment, but they sure were a bitch on your blisters. I opened the bag of assorted candy and started stuffing the piñata. Theearly eaters came over to help me. When we finished, I stood on a chair and hung the donkey from one of the dusty fluorescent lights in the middle of the room, trying to ignore my throbbing hands.
    After everybody finished eating and we packed up the leftovers, we formed a circle around the piñata. Each of the students took a blindfolded turn whacking at the donkey with the handle of a broom, while everybody else jumped out of the way.
    I wondered what the liability issues were for giving weapons to blindfolded seniors.
    â€œTake this, you ass,” Ethel yelled when it was her turn.
    Everybody cheered. A few of the women did the Macarena while Ethel whacked away.
    Eventually we made it around the circle, piñata still intact.
    â€œYour turn, Jill honey,” a nice woman named Bev said.
    I was an expert. Anastasia had had a piñata at all ten of her birthday parties, even when it was handmade and only the two of us. I felt for the donkey with the point of the broom handle, then traced my way up and down the length of its body until I found the soft spot.
    I jabbed upward, merely grazing my target. I readjusted the angle of the broom handle. I remembered the first piñata I’d barely managed to hang by myself after Seth had taken off. With each passing year, I’d become more proficient. I