Arroz Imperial and the Taste of Regret

I have a recipe card, written in my great-grandmother’s neat script, for black beans and rice, courtesy of Olga Batista, a Cuban-born lunchroom cook in Pahokee, Florida. My mother learned to make arroz con pollo and compose the famous “1905 Salad” recipe printed on matchbooks at the Cuban-Spanish Columbia Restaurant, where we dined on every trip to St. Augustine. On my left ring finger, there’s a half moon scar, sliced into my flesh as I prepared ropa vieja for my parents while on break from college. I have drunk communal, achingly sweet colada from a plastic thimble. But I did not know arroz imperial.