Lupita, the only name I remember because Joel introduced her first, steps forward and holds her hand out. “Let me finish the centerpiece. You’re cutting those roses too short for the vase. Desastre.”

Joel’s mom hands her the scissors and motions me to follow as she walks into a large pantry. “I’ve been hoping she’d take over for the last half hour. I’m afraid I’m terrible with flowers.” She hands me a pan filled with rows of tiny balls of dough and takes two others herself. “But cooking I can do. And this is an old family recipe so it’s perfect that you’re here to help.”

“Thank you for being so great about this. I hadn’t meant to intrude on your family lunch, but Joel insisted it’d be easier if I asked you directly.”

“Cuantos mas seamos, mejor,” she says repeating the same words Joel did in the car. “The more, the merrier.”

We take the trays back to the other room, and without prompting, Joel’s sisters take the trays and begin rolling out the dough into thin circles about a hand’s width wide. I can’t exactly jot this down in my notebook while I help so I mentally catalog it all. Including the way his sisters work like they’ve done it a million times, despite looking a few years younger than me. In fact, the whole kitchen works this way. There’s no bumping into each other and asking what needs to be done next. They’ve all been here in this kitchen every Sunday just like Joel said and it shows in the ease of their routine.

“How long have you known Joel?” One of the aunts whose name I can’t remember asks with a knowing glint in her eye.

“Not long.”

I hope that is a safe answer. I still don’t really know Joel. But when no one replies, I ramble on. “I mean he comes into the campus café where I work so I’ve talked to him lots of times, but I just ran into him the other night and that’s when I found out about your family. He agreed to help and here I am.”

He agreed seems like a nicer way to put it than he bartered because he wants to get in my pants. The look these ladies give me, though, I think they’re well acquainted with Joel’s motives.

“That’s very nice of him,” the talkative aunt says. I wish I could remember her name because I have a feeling she’s the one who has the dirt on every member of this family.

“Too nice of him, don’t you think Michelle?” the older of Joel’s sisters pipes in, looking to the other. Well, that’s one more name to the list. I really need a refresher on who’s who.

“I think it’s hopelessly romantic. You ran into each other and just happened to be writing a play based on Mexican culture.” Michelle looks around as if she’s waiting for everyone to agree. “And we’re a Mexican American family.”