There she stood, I
remember like it was yesterday;
my mother there in
the hot kitchen just cooking away.
I see her with the utensils
and ingredients neatly laid
showing how much she
loved us in the meals she made.
The molcajete and
pear pestle inside; with warm water
she'd pour I thought
made the chilies and tomatoes hotter;
fresh pequins and
serranos crushed by the ball in her hand
ground to a fine
paste that made a sauce only dad could stand.
Every movement with
precision and such tender care it
was like poetry in
motion as the aromas filled the air.
Piquant spices like
garlic, oregano, and comino in amounts
only she knew, never
measuring the spices in the food she threw.
As a small child I
was in awe how she did it so flawlessly
yet she not too
involved that she couldn't watch us cautiously;
making sure our
curiosity didn't invite an accident to happen.
On the hot stove
there she placed the comal that in time radiated heat
anticipating for fresh
homemade tortillas we couldn't wait to eat.
It was amazing how
she had a sense of awareness and balance;
an unswerving
determination to make what came to be perfection
simply oozed
exquisite tastes and complex arrangement having
our undivided
attention as we waited for our time with anticipation.
Unselfish countenance
it was unspoken as she didn't think twice
it just was the way
it was as my father ate first and we came after
him making sure we
had our fill and only then would she sit still.
This went on for
years until she taught us her skills but at times we
would refuse as teens
not seeing the importance of her culinary wisdom
with what became our
favorite meals thinking now if we had only listened.
Those fond memories
of our mother and how she operated in the kitchen
with food so unforgettable
that after all these years we still talk about it
Those days are gone,
those aromatic smells and wonderful tastes have
all but disappeared;
but despite the fact we no longer have her here
the memory of my
mother and her food we’ll indelibly hold dear.
Copyright NewLife2008
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