I wrote this for my Mom and Ive posted it before but it was requested. Here you go. Augustine Osuna Jr. February 23rd, 2010 My Mothers Gift I have many memories of my family and our times joyous and comedic skits being played out like a comedy on the big screen. One re-occurrence in a majority of our gatherings is the kitchen and my mother, immersed in her own world. Salt and pepper to her were like stars in the sky, the circular stove top grills burned like the suns’ scorching kiss in the summer. We all laughed and cried through both good and bad times but food was always the foundation of our household through all our occasions. I think back and remember that food was the one subject that everyone agreed on. Especially the homemade tortillas, chicken mole, beans, and Spanish rice. Yes, my Mothers gift was food and it was the glue that held my family together and intact. A beautiful spring evening in my house consisted of kids running around, like tiny cops and robbers. The women were always in the kitchen, resembling doctors playing the role of mad scientists at work. Sweat dripping down the brim of their eye brows like morning dew on the jungle leaves. The heat in the kitchen had our spring evening feeling like a summer night in the valley. I remember hearing beer cans cracking open like ice-cubes being rustled out of their burrows long after a chilling hibernation in the freezer. At the center point of it all was my mother and it never failed. She controlled her kitchen like a Commander at war. Her specialty consisted of 4 items that were seasoned and crafted impeccably. First, the homemade flour tortillas. I would watch as she mixed the flower, water, salt, and whatever else that she would sneak into her mixture. We would wait for the opportunity to get our hands on the warm blanket to our butter. We would grab the soft white wrappings and as soon as she gave us the approval and we would glaze the tortillas with buttery goodness. That was just the beginning. I can hear the bouncing boil of the beans resembling a hot spring with its consistent bubbly affect. The steam of the beans filled the house with a scent of bacon from the oil and residue my mother used to give the beans that would bring life to our taste buds. I reminisce of her seasoning her beans and it seemed that she was masterfully calculating every drop of salt, pepper, and love into the palatable side dish that was always a peremptory delight. Half of the delicious dinner was finished. Everyone in the house circled around the kitchen like wolves hungry for a meal. Her Spanish rice was soft, mouthwatering, and always so tasteful that I would have been content with the rice by itself. I remember my mother crushing the garlic that exuded the smell of Gilroy, California in our home. Every kernel of rice exploded like Pop-Rocks full of flavor. The midnight black colored pan cradled savory apple and orange colored rice like a baby being rocked to sleep. The blend of garlic, salt, pepper, and tomato sauce crashed together and was a tasteful massage to my palate. The black pepper decorated the rice like freckles on a child. Waiting until the food was finished was like waiting for payday when you have 3 dollars left in your bank account. Sitting around was a torture in itself. Last but not was the best member of the 4 elements of our dinner. The chicken mole was the most valuable to the course because of the compilation of seasonings was felicitous. This was my Mothers main specialty. It took time to master the perfect blending of the herbs and spices that enslaved your mind and your mouth. The gravy of the mole was usually thick in texture. You could smell the brown sugar and the chili powder greeting each other with arms wide open. A hint of chocolate powder she would add to sweeten the aftertaste but to me that was just a piece of my Mother. A small, quiet but loving woman who’s food spoke her emotions. The chicken my mother used had already been boiled in a broth and fell gently into the awaiting arms of the sauce. Just like Dorothy Allison had said about her Mother’s gravy, “It smells of home, the door locked against the night and a stillness made safe by the sound of a spoon going round in a pan. It is anticipation, the last thing prepared before the meal comes to the table, the bowl in Mama’s hands closing the day out peacefully, no matter what came before.” She would stir the chicken mole calmly and steadily, waiting for the right time to call it a job well done. By this time the family sits around the table waiting to have this blessing bestowed onto our plates. The hours it had took will all have been worth it once my Mom sits with us. All of the commotion, talking, and excitement from earlier has died down. We smile and the only things that you can hear now are the spoons lightly rapping against the porcelain colored plates and bowls. This is what being a family is all about, the opportunity for us to enjoy each other’s company. It was all thanks to my Mother’s gift.
Posted on: Thu, 04 Dec 2014 23:49:50 +0000
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