That night, the sting of under-appreciation plastered the roof of my mouth.
Seven years.
Production assistant.
Production assistant.
Production assistant.
The horizon resembled vibrant papaya flesh on a late summer evening. My partner and I sat against ultra-marine bricks at Cocina Consuelo. I watched children push oversized laundry carts; their wheels rattled like dried fava beans dropping on concrete. I’ve tricked myself one too many times into thinking that folks have my best interests at heart just because they proclaim to like me. I let Cocina Consuelo’s slick cashew cream from their bright fava bean salad put my delusion to rest.
I’m too knowledgeable for a promotion; but magically, never had enough experience for it. Like pushing a cooked legume through a fork, I had just the right amount of fear to not resist while being pressed down. I kept my mouth shut, believing that would keep me in their mind. When the time comes, I will trade this version of oppression for another. I spread myself thin to all-knowing white men, while cramming bits of delights to keep myself from falling apart. I split the fava beans between my teeth.
Credits rolled down my smile.
Golden nasturtiums sat like confetti along my spoon. The flowers are peppery with a slight bitter aftertaste. When award season comes along, I toast to the bouquets awarded to my name in secret. A joint effort; a predominantly white trophy. I’ve effloresced well beyond what they gave me credit for. I mix their gold on my plate and eat them. Chartreuse fava beans coalesced with the floral and savory warmth of marjoram. Lightly pickled onions sprinkled with freshly cracked pepper made my palate feel fresh, fruity and fragrant. I no longer have an appetite for what I assumed to be the most impressive thing about me. My fork swept up the cashew cream, herbs, and nasturtium confetti onto my spoon.
I know it doesn’t sound like it, but I was celebrating that night.