Søndagspaella

Hver søndag, så længe Inés kunne huske, havde hendes bedstefar lavet paella. Ikke den slags, turisterne spiser på billige restauranter ved stranden, men den langsomme slags med ben, safran og kanin på en god dag. Han lavede den på terrassen over et bål, han selv tændte, selv nu hvor han var treogfirs.

Every Sunday for as long as she could remember, Inés's grandfather had made paella. Not the kind tourists ate in cheap restaurants by the beach, but the slow kind, with bones and saffron and rabbit on a good day. He made it on the patio over a wood fire he started himself, even now that he was eighty-three.

Denne søndag var Inés kommet hjem fra Madrid for at se ham. Han var tyndere end sidste gang. Han bevægede sig mere forsigtigt. Men da hun gik ud på terrassen, sad han allerede på hug ved bålet og justerede brændestykkerne med en lang jernstang.

This Sunday Inés had come home from Madrid to see him. He was thinner than the last time. He moved more carefully. But when she walked into the patio, he was already crouched by the fire, adjusting the logs with a long iron stick.

"Du er sent på den," sagde han uden at vende sig om. Han sagde altid det, selv når hun var tidligt på den.

"You're late," he said, without turning around. He always said this even when she was early.

Hun knælede ved siden af ham og kiggede på panden. Risen begyndte lige at suge bouillonen til sig. Køkkenet bag dem duftede af hvidløg og rosmarin. Hendes bedstemor var et sted indenfor og smækkede tallerkener på bordet.

She knelt next to him and looked at the pan. The rice was just starting to absorb the broth. The kitchen behind them smelled like garlic and rosemary. Her grandmother was somewhere inside, banging plates onto the table.

Han pegede på panden med sin stang. "Du holder øje med denne her. Rør ikke i den. Folk, der rører i paella, forstår ikke paella."

He pointed at the pan with his stick. "You watch this one. Don't stir it. People who stir paella don't understand paella."

Inés rørte sig ikke i tredive minutter. Hun så risen skifte farve, så bunden af panden blive brun, så sin bedstefar se på hende. Da han endelig tog panden af bålet, nikkede han en enkelt gang. Hun behøvede ikke, at han sagde mere.

Inés didn't move for thirty minutes. She watched the rice change color, watched the bottom of the pan catch and brown, watched her grandfather watch her. When he finally took the pan off the fire, he nodded once. She did not need him to say anything else.