Tortillas with Butter
Mornings in my Nána’s kitchen were filled
with rhythm and emotion, where everything’s
punctuated with laughter and the smell of
chorizo con papas.
“Tu tienes hambre, wedita?”
Everything in my life could have been solved
by a tortilla with butter. Like when Jeremy
told me my gap was so big it looked like
my front teeth had an argument and separated.
Sometimes bits of tortilla would get stuck
in it and I’d tickle it out with my tongue
before flooding it with sugary coffee from my
zoo mug she kept just for me.
My mother’s brothers and sisters would chatter away,
joined by spinning, clicking spoons and
the steady rhythm of my nana’s rolling pin.
They’d stop and ask me if I understood them
and I’d shy away, not wanting the spotlight.
I’d stare into the jungle that held my caramel
colored coffee and listen to the enchanting
chatterings that would echo through me
for years. My nána, a warm heavenly figure,
was the buzzing center of it all. I felt special
seated at this foreign, grown-up island;
a welcome intruder and pupil. The butter
melted on my tongue as I received the blessing
of the softest, freshest flour.
“Hay mas, hijita. Comer todo lo que quieras.”
Everything in my life could have been solved
by a tortilla with butter. Like when my cousin
told me I was “being a white girl” and
pulled my chongo. Maybe it was because
I have my father’s name, or his teeth, or skin.
The white sheep and brown sheep of a herd
that stretches across all boundaries, grazing
on sweet tubes of culture made of tawny burns
interspersed in creamy whiteness, round and perfect.
I took each unique one deep into the body
of a growing mestiza.
with rhythm and emotion, where everything’s
punctuated with laughter and the smell of
chorizo con papas.
“Tu tienes hambre, wedita?”
Everything in my life could have been solved
by a tortilla with butter. Like when Jeremy
told me my gap was so big it looked like
my front teeth had an argument and separated.
Sometimes bits of tortilla would get stuck
in it and I’d tickle it out with my tongue
before flooding it with sugary coffee from my
zoo mug she kept just for me.
My mother’s brothers and sisters would chatter away,
joined by spinning, clicking spoons and
the steady rhythm of my nana’s rolling pin.
They’d stop and ask me if I understood them
and I’d shy away, not wanting the spotlight.
I’d stare into the jungle that held my caramel
colored coffee and listen to the enchanting
chatterings that would echo through me
for years. My nána, a warm heavenly figure,
was the buzzing center of it all. I felt special
seated at this foreign, grown-up island;
a welcome intruder and pupil. The butter
melted on my tongue as I received the blessing
of the softest, freshest flour.
“Hay mas, hijita. Comer todo lo que quieras.”
Everything in my life could have been solved
by a tortilla with butter. Like when my cousin
told me I was “being a white girl” and
pulled my chongo. Maybe it was because
I have my father’s name, or his teeth, or skin.
The white sheep and brown sheep of a herd
that stretches across all boundaries, grazing
on sweet tubes of culture made of tawny burns
interspersed in creamy whiteness, round and perfect.
I took each unique one deep into the body
of a growing mestiza.
Sondra Lankford
Harbinger Student Literary Journal http://english.ttu.edu/SigTD/Harbinger/
Spring 2010 Issue
TTU
Spring 2010 Issue
TTU
