In the Kitchen
Dedicated to my grandmother, Josefa López Artiles, AKA "Abuelita Fefa"
The canary yellow kitchen walls were sparkling clean. The whole room smelled of chocolate chip cookies. My grandmother had already arrived like she did every Friday after school. She changed her neatly ironed black hand-made dress into her read and orange polka-dotted skirt, white short-sleeved blouse, and forest green apron. Her white and wavy hair was combed all the way to the back, right behind her ears. She walked into the kitchen, began to sing, and opened up the kitchen big wooden windows.
I had already taken off my gray and navy blue school uniform, and my black shoes. Then I'd loosen up my tight ponytail until my long straight brown hair fell right below my shoulders, covering my ears. As soon as I put on my short red dress, I strolled to the kitchen. Grandma looked at me and pointed to the aprons. I chose the orange one. It reminded me of her pumpkin pie.
In the kitchen, she told me that she wanted me to know I was like all the ingredients that we used. I would say "Abuelita!" and giggled, while she kissed my forehead, and very softly held my hands for a few seconds.
There was no dishwasher in the kitchen, and -at the end of every meal, all the dishes were piled up in the granite sink. They reminded me of the Eifel Tower, and the Statue of Liberty, which Grandma had so many times told me about.
I imagined myself flying out of the kitchen, and landing on cobble-stoned century-old-streets, as in "Back to the Future," while enjoying the aroma of pizza, waffles, and angel cakes that were offered to me by French-speaking chefs, wearing their funny white hats. Occasionally, a dish or two would slide off my wet and slippery little hands. "Whoops!" I would say. Grandma would look at me, shake her head, and smile.
Abuelita and I spent hours together in the kitchen, with no radio, nor television. She would sing songs about when she forgot her wallet at home when I became potty trained, my walking like John Wayne, and my sucking my pacifier so hard that it sounded like a trumpet announcing the arrival of her royal highness. Sometimes, we would laugh until tears came down our cheeks.
While buttering the cake mold, grandma told me about how Grandpa Antonio went to the WWII, and she lost all contact with him, but never the hope to see him again. With our bare hands, we mixed up the wheat flour, fresh eggs, and white cane sugar in a plastic bowl. The kitchen did not have air conditioning, but it was fresh. She left the two opposite windows open. One was next to the brand new wooden cupboard. The other one was by the old white refrigerator. I scratched the inside of the cooking pots with my wooden spoon. I ate all the filling until I could see my reflection.
I closed my eyes and breathed in very slowly.
The canary yellow kitchen walls were sparkling clean. The whole room smelled of chocolate chip cookies. My grandmother had already arrived like she did every Friday after school. She changed her neatly ironed black hand-made dress into her read and orange polka-dotted skirt, white short-sleeved blouse, and forest green apron. Her white and wavy hair was combed all the way to the back, right behind her ears. She walked into the kitchen, began to sing, and opened up the kitchen big wooden windows.
I had already taken off my gray and navy blue school uniform, and my black shoes. Then I'd loosen up my tight ponytail until my long straight brown hair fell right below my shoulders, covering my ears. As soon as I put on my short red dress, I strolled to the kitchen. Grandma looked at me and pointed to the aprons. I chose the orange one. It reminded me of her pumpkin pie.
In the kitchen, she told me that she wanted me to know I was like all the ingredients that we used. I would say "Abuelita!" and giggled, while she kissed my forehead, and very softly held my hands for a few seconds.
There was no dishwasher in the kitchen, and -at the end of every meal, all the dishes were piled up in the granite sink. They reminded me of the Eifel Tower, and the Statue of Liberty, which Grandma had so many times told me about.
I imagined myself flying out of the kitchen, and landing on cobble-stoned century-old-streets, as in "Back to the Future," while enjoying the aroma of pizza, waffles, and angel cakes that were offered to me by French-speaking chefs, wearing their funny white hats. Occasionally, a dish or two would slide off my wet and slippery little hands. "Whoops!" I would say. Grandma would look at me, shake her head, and smile.
Abuelita and I spent hours together in the kitchen, with no radio, nor television. She would sing songs about when she forgot her wallet at home when I became potty trained, my walking like John Wayne, and my sucking my pacifier so hard that it sounded like a trumpet announcing the arrival of her royal highness. Sometimes, we would laugh until tears came down our cheeks.
While buttering the cake mold, grandma told me about how Grandpa Antonio went to the WWII, and she lost all contact with him, but never the hope to see him again. With our bare hands, we mixed up the wheat flour, fresh eggs, and white cane sugar in a plastic bowl. The kitchen did not have air conditioning, but it was fresh. She left the two opposite windows open. One was next to the brand new wooden cupboard. The other one was by the old white refrigerator. I scratched the inside of the cooking pots with my wooden spoon. I ate all the filling until I could see my reflection.
I closed my eyes and breathed in very slowly.
Comments
Post a Comment