The first time it happened, it was so small it barely registered. My mother-in-law, Delphina, was doubled over in laughter, shaking her head at her friend Rosabel’s “ridiculous” confession: she didn’t know what paprika was made of.
I smiled politely, spoon in hand, stirring the pot of chicken stew I’d been tasked with watching. The smell of simmering broth filled the kitchen, warm and heavy, but all I could feel was a quiet heat rising in my cheeks. Because truth be told, I didn’t know either.
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