“Then get one that’s sharp and hurry up.” Pedro turns around to go tend to the stove. When he grabs a dish rag to wipe his fingers off, I notice a scar on the side of his hand. It reminds me of the day he called me out in front of the neighborhood kids for making flower soup. He had just cut himself in Sugar’s kitchen.

I wonder if that’s why he was being a jerk about my knife skills. If he was actually looking out for me, even if in his own arrogant way.

I don’t know if Victor can hear my heart going off the rails, but he leans in and whispers, “Don’t let him get to you,” before heading over to help Cintia.

I try to focus on chopping onions for the next few minutes, working like Pedro showed me. His instructions were spot on. When I’m done, I bring the diced onions to Cintia and Victor, who start browning them with the sausages.

Pedro smacks a few cloves of garlic with the blade of a knife and tosses them into the pan that Cintia is stirring, and the kitchen fills with a mouth-watering aroma. I start to relax. This smells like home.

“I’m getting hungry,” PC says, peering over the frying pan. “Is there anything more delicious than the smell of sizzling onions, garlic, and sausages?”

I smile. When I lift my eyes, I catch a silly grin on Pedro’s face, too.

We both immediately drop our gazes.

“The beans are ready,” he says, opening the pressure cooker.

Cintia pours the fried sausages, onions, and garlic in with the black beans. Victor hands ground pepper to Pedro, who seasons everything himself. When he’s finished, they all take a taste.

“I feel like there’s something missing,” Cintia says. She glances at me. “What do you think, Lari?”

Put on the spot, my whole body tenses up.

I think about the way Grandma would often sneak me a spatula of something deliciously doughy to lick clean when I was little, and she’d whisper, “What do you think is missing in this recipe?”

In those little, conspiratorial moments, I started thinking more and more about my answer. I began suggesting things like ground pepper, olive oil, a dash of lime. Grandma’s eyes twinkled, listening carefully to my suggestions, but I doubt she ever used any of them. I think she just wanted to make me feel included.

I try a spoonful. The black beans are almost sweet with the caramelized onions. The browned garlic, a little crunchy, gives the dish so much flavor. But there is definitely something missing...

“Basil,” I say. The word comes out like magic. Thank you, Grandma.