Hidden Rituals

by Clara Perez

     Food is being prepared by my grandma and mom. They’re making pipian and if anyone goes near it who is not preparing it, the pipian will go bad. It’s almost dinner-time and the last game of tag is slowly coming to end. We’re in the middle of summer and all the running around and the heat makes our stomachs crave something cool. Yet, we can’t get it ourselves or else el pipian se corta. We have to ask if we can get some water since we’re not allowed near the kitchen.

     My grandma and mom don’t seem to talk, at least if they do, it’s not loud enough for me to hear. To me it seems as if they work quietly trying hard not to let anyone come too close, working their simple ingredients into something that has everyone licking every last bit off their fingers.

     The kitchen is one big faded blue room, with cups hanging on the wall, and plates leaning just below them. There are only two appliances within those four walls; a small stove placed against the far right corner close to the entrance to the small dinning room and an old wooden makeshift table on the opposite corner.

     I yearn to be in there, simply because I’m not allowed. The spicy smell of the chicken submerged in that rich, creamy sauce travels enticingly and tempts me to get closer, to take a peek at the ritual I am not yet old enough to witness.

     But I don’t. I don’t want to be responsible for our dinner having to go to the pigs in the back. My stomach won’t allow it and I’ll be in trouble if I do, that’ll be worse. So I wait. The game of tag is now ending and I’m already out. I sit on the couch that allows me a direct view of the stove. Yet I cannot see what they do with their bodies right in front of it.

     Time passes by and finally we’re called for dinner. Their magic is done. I saw the beginning and saw the end, but what goes on in the middle?

Clara Perez is a student at Fairhaven College. She says, "I was born in Mexico. I didn't live there for long since my dad decided to bring to Tacoma, Washington. Most of the memories I have of living in Mexico are vague, yet what I am able to remember I cherish. I am the second oldest in a family of six altogether. Now at 20 years old and living on my own miles from home, life has changed and made me grow. I am often confused about what I want to do with my life, but I know whatever I end up doing my family and those who I love will always be there supporting every step I take, even if they don't like my choices. In the end life is a journey and "That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet." (Emily Dickinson "poem no. 1741")

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