A Recipe for Daphne

wasn’t time apart, but time away together.
Aunt Gavriela knocked softly on the bedroom door, tiptoed inside, and kissed Daphne on the forehead. “How about I make a good Turkish breakfast?”
Daphne followed her aunt to the kitchen, which was really no more than a closet with an oven, a sink, and a small barred window that opened onto an air shaft. She inhaled its distinctive scent: Turkish coffee, cinnamon, garlic, and naphthalene. As much as Sultana and Gavriela pretended to be different from one another, their kitchens smelled exactly the same.
Gavriela took a pot from the squeaky cupboard and began pumping water into it from the nineteen-liter plastic demijohn that took up half the kitchen’s narrow walking space: a necessity since Istanbul’s tap water was “full of rust and chlorine,” as Gavriela had explained when Daphne first arrived.
“Can I do anything?” said Daphne. She felt like she was moving through a thick gray cloud of semi-sleep, but her mother had taught her always to offer help in the kitchen.
“Go get the eggs from the refrigerator,” said Gavriela. “Then we’ll chat.”
Daphne turned the corner of the L-shaped hallway and entered a small, dark room. In one corner was the household iconostasis with its holy images, photos of dead relatives, and an always-lit vigil lamp that seemed a rather risky thing to have in a country plagued by earthquakes. In the opposite corner was a large 1960s American refrigerator. Daphne took the eggs from the middle compartment and brought them to her aunt.
“I can’t understand that room,” she said. “What’s the point?”
“The maid’s room, from back when the apartment belonged to a Jewish family.” Gavriela pointed to the red plastic stool in the kitchen doorway. “Now have a seat.”
Daphne leaned her jet-lagged head on the kitchen door. Gavriela turned on one of the burners and pulled the trigger of the handheld gas igniter. The blue flame encircled the burner with a soft ripping sound. “A good house had everything,” she said.
“Including a closet-sized kitchen? Why don’t you knock down the wall and combine the two rooms?”
“What for? In those big American kitchens you have over there, nobody makes a damn thing worth eating, if they ever use them at all. It’s not the space that matters. It’s the hands. Didn’t my little sister teach you anything?”
“She didn’t have time. Not with working six days a week in the fabric shop.”
Gavriela combined coffee, sugar, and water in a small bronze coffee pot and set it on the burner. “We can fix that,” she said. “You drink Turkish coffee, don’t you?”
“Only when Mom makes it. For me it’s too much trouble.”
Gavriela clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Because you’re my niece, I’ll tell you my secret, but you can’t tell anyone, not even your mother.” She ceased her relentless chewing of mastic gum and lowered her voice: “I mix Turkish Mehmet Efendi and Greek Loumidis. Mehmet’s too dark and Loumidis too light, but together they’re divine.”
“Half and half,” said Daphne. “Like me.”
“That’s why you’re both so tasty,” said Gavriela, pinching Daphne’s cheek. “You have to hover over the pot while it’s heating, always on low flame. The second you look away it will boil, and then you’ve got to dump it into the toilet. Look there it goes, foaming up.” Gavriela whisked the pot from the flame, poured the contents into a demitasse cup, and handed it to Daphne. “Lots of bubbles. That means money. Or jealousy.”
“Which one?”
“Whichever you want.”
After waiting for the coffee to settle and cool, Daphne took a tiny sip and leaned her head back on the door. Although she didn’t like the fuss, she had to admit that her aunt’s brew was far smoother—friendlier, homier even—than the Cuban espresso she brewed at home in a moka pot.
“What’s that ringing?” said Gavriela.
The muffled electronic tune was coming from the pay-as-you-go phone Daphne had bought at the airport. She set her coffee on the counter and rushed to the foyer, where she had left it. “Hello?”
“Hey, babe,” said Paul. “How are you?”
Daphne felt the warmth of their first days together. Maybe the relationship crisis was all in her head. Maybe he did love her, after all. “Still jet-lagged,” she said.
“You’ll get over it soon.”
“I was thinking, maybe you’d like to come here.”
“Hmm . . . maybe. I changed all the pipes in the garage today. We’ll never have to worry about the bathroom clogging up again. I installed special filters that are super-easy to change.”
Daphne sank into the foyer armchair. Paul always made her feel so secure about the house and daily problems. If only he did the same on an emotional level. “Thanks. You’re the best. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“The cat misses you.”
“And you?”
“You only just left. How are things there? Are you having a good time?”
Daphne felt a surge of annoyance. “You were the one who wanted space. Are you having a good time?”
He sighed. “Needing space doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”
“What does it mean?”
“I just enjoy my alone time. I can blast the music, do my house jobs, get back to my pottery.”
Paul’s second hobby, after tango, was potting. He’d made all their dinner ware, coffee mugs, and plenty of objets d’art, including the ceramic pomegranates on Gavriela’s entryway coffee table. “My aunt says thank you for the pomegranates,” she said.
“My pleasure. You know, I’m really glad you’re going to do those Turkish classes. I want you to realize your goals—even if that means a few sacrifices for me. Go all the way, Daph. Apply for those PhD programs as soon as you get back.”
“Thanks,” said Daphne. Yet she was unable to strangle her irritation.
“You know, I missed dancing with you tonight.”
For a moment Daphne allowed herself to remember Paul’s clear and gentle lead, as well as his keen musicality, weaving itself into the song. He was one of the rare cavaliers who danced both rhythm and melody equally well. “Where did you go?” she asked.
“La Porteñita. Everybody was asking about you. They all say hello: