![]() ![]() “Sí,” I say as I slice into the tender oven roast and spear my first bite of succulent pink meat. Ninety-year-old Perla has been homeschooling me since we moved in with her eight years ago, so she’s used to lesson-planning around lunaritis. “Cuando te despertés seguimos con Cien Años de Soledad,” says Perla as I’m squeezing salsa golf over my roasted potato wedges. ![]() The apartment’s ancient air conditioner has a hard enough time battling the Miami sun, but it can’t compete with the heat of Ma’s cooking. I feel a quiver of discomfort in my uterus, and I pry my sticky thighs from the plastic chair to readjust my legs. ![]() Even if this weren’t one of my favorite meals, I’d still need sustenance for my sixty-hour fast. ![]() My mouth waters with a whiff of the meat’s smoky aroma. “Comé bien que en una hora empieza lunaritis,” Ma reminds me as she shuts the oven door and places the seasoned carne al horno on the table to start carving. Ma blames the lunar cycle for hijacking my menstrual cycle, so she calls my condition lunaritis-a made-up diagnosis that depending upon inflection can sound like English or Spanish. ![]()
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