cummings and goings

Tinca Leahy - 28 Sep 15

…not a single one of them made a reservation. 40 people presented themselves for drinks, lunch and tapas just after two in the afternoon. Chaos ensued. Controlled chaos but chaos nonetheless. Every Sunday we make a huge arroz cortijero outside in the garden. This Sunday, since we had no reservations, we made a smaller version with rabbit yum with the intention of eating it ourselves. Angel (an-hel, also known as Angelito, also known as Moch) loves rice. I will save him some I thought as I feverishly prepared tapas. 8 people appeared. Much huffing and puffing and movement of furniture. They clocked the rice and all ordered it. As did some of the other tables. No rice for Moch, nor for deeply Spanish Manu who was cooking it and gets very grumpy when he doesn’t eat.

This circus went on for five hours. We ran out of food. People get cross when you run out of food. My new technique is to smile benignly, hand over a business card and request that they call and book a table the next time. They hardly ever do. And yet seem unable to make the connection between calling me beforehand and being able to choose whatever they wish from the menu. Menu, get me. It’s a blackboard with tiny hand smirches all over it that frequently advertises dishes we don’t have.

I’m still not sure how this all happened. I’m neither a chef nor an expert in hostelry, horses or farming. All of this newness combined with the soul shaking ride that is being a mother for the first time conspires to leave me in almost permanent state of bewilderment. The training I do have is in acting and puppetry. I find myself calling upon these skills frequently in order to mask the aforementioned permabewilder. The deeply Spanish Manu has started talking to me veeeeeery slllowwwwly. I can quite see that I’m driving him stark  staring but there is very little I can do about it. I’m working at full capacity you see. I simply can’t process any more new. And whatever there is, whatever I am now, is for the shiniest light of them all…my baby boy.

Drooping with exhaustion, done with being nice to everyone all the cocking time, hungry, ratty, moody, spoiling for a fight and one slow, beautiful beaming baby smile is like 8 hours of dreamy sleep and a bowl of spicy pho all rolled into one. Revived, refreshed, rebooted and decrazied.

I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart. e e cummings

Tinca Leahy

There's a hotel, a baby, a deeply Spanish man and a lot of frankly ridiculous situations. The hotel is in Andalusia in Southern Spain. The baby, Angel (ang-hel in a Spanish accent) was born on Bastille Day in 2014 and is a gorgeous bundle of laughing, screaming, giggling, furious, cheeky changeable joy. The deeply Spanish man is called Manu. Long suffering, infuriating, good to the very bones and sexy with it. My name is Tinca. Together we are trying to keep this sixteenth century leaking crumbling ship afloat.

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