"How long does it take you to make the puff pastries?" the visitor asks.
"That takes the longest," says she. Her eye glasses have dipped a little lower on her nose bridge, and she watches the dough over the rims of her glasses. It is as if she were watching people doing something in the distance, but really, according to her, she's relaxed. She does this repetitive exercise every day, and it's not about being fun or being necessary, it's just, as she says, "occupationally therapeutic."
She is done rolling the pastry dough to an eighth of an inch thick. The sun is out again, but soon it will disappear behind the vast clouds above. But for the moment, the bright sunlight lights up the dining room, which is separated from the outside by a huge glass doors. The white tiles outside, the blue swimming pool, the palm trees, the pool side tables and chairs, all sitting out there, waiting, waiting for either someone to join them, or for the weather to become amiable to their existence. And she is waiting too, but not for anything in particular. She is already where she wants to be, but she isn't inactive; she is waiting.
The visitor looks away to see what's on TV. She has it on for background noise. Silence is a louder distraction than the mundane voices of soap operas. The visitor turns his attention back to her and remarks that she is now cutting perfect circles out of the thin sheet of puff pastry. She cuts out about 14 circular disks and removes the unused ones onto the side. The visitor quietly wonders what she will do with the unused ones. It's a lot of effort put in that pile of unused dough built at the far edge of the table, between them and the glass doors to the outside, which, by now, has resumed its shady state. The dog outside stands up, wags its tail a little bit, and circumnavigates the blue swimming pool. She lifts a small white tub that is meant for something else but has since been recycled to keep her different fillings. This one is the guava jam. She exerts some effort to open the tightly tightened lid, puts it on a nearby chair as there is no room left on the table, and puts the tub right next to her, on the part of the edge of the table that isn't covered by the wax paper she had laid down this morning when she started her work.
She stands up, hovers over the table a little, grabs the teaspoon resting nearby, and starts to scoop out the dark, red solid before shaking it off onto the center of each of the yellow disks. She isn't really thinking about the whole process. She isn't really thinking at all, at this moment. Her body is doing all the work, her mind is free for the moment. She notices the beautiful contrast between the red centers and the yellow surfaces of what she is making. After filling all the disks with the red delicacy, she retrieves the lid and tightens it on the tub of goodies. Having placed it on the same chair the lid was sunbathing on, because the sun is back again, she opens a Tupperware full of pre-sliced white cheese sticks. Each was made the previous day, each the size of the tip of the thumb. She places each white piece in the center, more of less, of the red jam. Now the color combination is even more splendid. She enjoys seeing her work come into the form she has expected but still admires. She smiles a little, and looks at the visitor, who is looking at what she's doing with admiration.
When she takes the mold that will help me finalize the creation of these mini pastries in the shapes of empanadas, he asks where she got the mold. It is an interesting contraption. You basically put the disk with the fillings on it onto the mold, then close the mold by folding it into a semicircle, sealing the disk with the goodies inside. That is what she does to each after wetting the edges with water from a small white bowl next to her. After every few folding she would put flour in the mold again to prevent the pastry from sticking to the mold. And after she closes the mold, she takes a knife, also waiting patiently on the side, to scrape off extra dough. The extra sliver of dough joins the pile of dough that isn't being used for these pastries. After opening up the mold she places the sweet empanada inside a plastic container. Her job is done for that one pastry.
Here she explains to her visitor the business she owns in selling these artisan sweets. She likes the company. She likes the interest in the man's voice. For her, standing there in the middle of the dining room, even if no sun shines to her right side through the glass doors, his inquisitiveness and patience is a constant light coming from the left. She glances at the two full boxes she had already made today. There are seven more boxes lying empty, also waiting. She thinks for a moment what other sweets she will make and for how many boxes, a momentary calculation. Then her mind goes blank again. Although she doesn't hear the swaying of the palm trees outside in the cool early spring breeze, she could feel the calm everywhere, she could smell spring from within. Her mind remains blank.
