It is cooked by Ramona, of course, and is served by Paloma and by me, at a long table at the far end of the kitchen, just off the pantry. I had been relieved of my color-grinding duties after the drawing class was over, and I stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, my shoulders and elbows aching. “Here, muchacha, set out the glasses and pour the wine,” says Paloma, upon seeing me enter. She hands me a tray of glassware. “Over there.” I see, at the end of the kitchen, a large, heavy oaken table that is already set with plates and utensils for a goodly number of people. Wearily, I set out a glass at each place and then look about for the bottles of wine, but there is only an empty pitcher on the tabletop. Paloma sees my confusion and points to a large cask set into the wall, with a wooden spigot sticking out of it. Comprehension dawns. I take the pitcher and stick it under the spigot and turn the handle so that the rich red wine spills out. Looking about and seeing that the other kitchen help is occupied, I let some spill over my thumb and then stick my thumb in my mouth.
