Morning comes early in the Springtime desert. Before the glow of dawn becomes raw rays of sunshine, the scent of the portulaca and roses fill the air.
No one wants to cook inside today. It's going to be hot. In the pre-dawn hours, breakfast, lunch and dinner preparations are taking place under the wooden-roofed open shelter. The big clay stove crackles with the first logs of the morning ablaze. Smoky mesquite wafts in tiny streams over the rusty tin roof.
The big clay pots on the stove are already starting to bubble. In a little while, the red teapot that looks suspiciously like a tin chicken, will begin to whistle. With water ready for tea, my morning can start. The late sleepers can have their percolated coffee... I need the quiet for my milky tea and I to greet the dawn.
The low stone and adobe wall provides the perfect place to rest my tired ass. No amount of sleep satisfies the deep need for more rest. The smoky tea, sweet enough to cut the bitter, is just enough to pry my eyes awake. Long shadows roam across the open yard, chasing slow chickens and sleeping dogs.
I would hold this morning in my hands forever, but the memory is sand and my fat fingers cannot hold the slippery grains.
Back in the open kitchen, onions are being sliced methodically. Fresh peppers join the onions in the huge open cast iron pans. Simmering in leftover fat from the chorizo, the onions take on the rich red oil. Once the garlic has been added, and the soaking guajillo peppers are ready, everything will simmer on the cool side of the stove for a while. Tia is peeling tomatillos for the salsa verde that will cook most of the morning. Later today the pork will be added and tonight we'll have my favorite tacos.
This morning's breakfast will have to wait. With only a few of us awake and working, the kitchen is slow to get moving. Even the dogs know that there are no scraps to beg for yet. I helped Tia bring over the big comal to the adobe stove. Once everything warms up, we'll all have fresh tortillas that smell like fresh air and toasted corn.
Before the percolating coffee has finished, I am already being told to go scatter feed for the chickens. No one wants them underfoot in the kitchen. The dusty dogs stir and let it be known that they want breakfast too. Two of them join me to help fetch water from the standpipe. Nothing wrong with each of us catching a quick drink of cold water from the faucet. With the bucket full of water, I head back to the kitchen.
The water joins the other pots on the stove and starts heating up. There's always something that needs boiling water. Rattling lids echo the soft knife cuts against the wooden cutting boards. The happy chickens murmur and purr their contentment. It is this place where I can fall asleep again. I close my eyes just for a moment as the sun peaks around the low walls. For a moment the light is warm and the kitchen is warmer. Slowly they combine like a silty canal and I am left with my closed eyes feeling hot to the touch.
When I open my eyes, everything is gone.
The dusty yard is there, but the dogs and chickens are gone. The kitchen is bare and cold. The light is gone, night is here. Everyone and everything is gone. The last smell of the night is the Cerus, blooming in total disregard to everything else.
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