Farewell, My Niñera

This weekend, I was given some of the worst news I’ve had all year. My niñera, the amazing Latina lady who babysat my sister and me when we were wee small, Mrs. Emma, had died. She died two years ago this month of a stroke. She was in her 90’s and feisty to the very end, which makes me happy. Losing her is hard, but it reminds me of so many amazing and wonderful times in my life.

To this day, my sister and I argue over who gave whom the chicken pox. Hint: it was Lexie. Her class got them first, showed symptoms first, and though I showed spots first, it’s because I was younger and had a less developed immune system. Anyway, Lexie and I ended up quarantined in Mrs. Emma’s back bedroom. Away from the rest of the family, away from her grandkids so we didn’t contaminate the planet. For a week, we were under quarantine, and it was more fun than it should have been, all because of her.

Mrs. Emma grew her own peppers in her garden out back. She grew peppers so hot, when she dried them over her stove, nowhere was safe. Every breath of air in her house burned. It took my father one deep breath to become accustomed to the burning air in Mrs. Emma’s house. My mom took a little longer, but not much. Lexie and I were in agony, and my father had only one thing to say: “It’s good for you.” And yeah, it was.

Mrs. Emma cooked for us, and her cooking was just as hot as her peppers might make you think. It was also some of the most amazing stuff on earth. I’ve never tasted its equal, and believe me, I’ve looked. I’ve never met her equal, either. She is the reason why I LOVE hot food. She's the reason I can eat pickled jalenpeños straight out of the jar. She is a big part of why I love vindaloo. And it's not just the hot peppers of her garden. She, just like my mother, insisted that we try new things.

I didn’t get to say goodbye, not really. But I know she knew. She always knew.

Thanks, Mrs. Emma. Thanks for everything.