Memoir revision--In my grandma's kitchen

I was five years old the first time my grandma made gorditas for my sister and me. We stood on our tiptoes to reach the level of my grandma’s hands on the kitchen counter where she molded the thick, circular tortillas made of masa harina in her wrinkled palms. Our eyes paced back and forth with her hand movements as we struggled to maintain our grip on the counter’s edge. We watched her place the masa cakes in a pan full of bubbling-hot oil situated on her outdated stovetop. I fought my sister for the protection of my grandma’s leg when drops of oil escaped from the pan above our heads. The masa-colored surfaces transformed into a light golden brown as they fried. She made sure to cook them long enough for the insides to remain moist and chewy, and so an abundance of steam flowed from within when she seized them with her fork.

It was a simple food, not even a dish, but the experience was so gratifying because it was something my mom never made at home. I longed to taste the gorditas in the setting of my own kitchen, but my sister and I knew it was a rare food experience that we needed to savor while my mom wasn’t around. My grandma, on the other hand, was indifferent to our taking two extra spoonfuls of margarine and smothering it into the crevices of the gordita. We felt like fugitives trying to escape the health-conscious ways of our one-time marathon-running mother and past Miss Panamerican titleholder—memories she dwells on often.

My mom isn’t my grandma Carolina’s daughter, but she treats her like one. When my mom was around to witness the event of my and my sister’s overindulgences, she gave us the smile of a mother who knew she couldn’t compete with Grandma. My mom had authority, but my grandma had just a little bit more. When we returned home, it was apple slices and turkey sandwiches on four-grain bread, but the gorditas were so satisfying that we felt full for a week. It was a sweet victory over Mom.

To anyone who doesn’t know my grandma, a smashed gordita soaked in butter sounds like the average junk most Mexican children crave. It’s a cheap food that she made for the six kids she had to raise by herself on the east side of Chicago after she left an abusive husband in Guadalajara. I had the chance to visit my estranged grandfather on his cattle farm big enough for a family of 15 during a trip to Mexico with my immediate family when I was nine years old. He lived alone with two dogs whose visible rib cages said it all: he was a selfish man. He had the leathery and tired face of someone who worked in the sun all day and cared little for contact with family or friends. His closest relationships were with a bottle of tequila and a rusty pick-up truck. He didn’t know my name.

My grandma never went on these trips with us to Mexico. The kid in me thought it was because she was still in love with my grandpa and wasn’t prepared to dig up old emotions. My sister was the mature one who realized she just hated him.

I have learned more about my grandma through her cooking than in the conversations we have. She lets her two-foot-tall steel pot do the talking—the one that is dented and scratched all over the silver surface from years of cooking caldos for the big family she created. Her servings of caldo de albóniga, caldo de camarón, pozole and menudo always reached the rim of the bowl, especially with the frequent and welcome addition of her Mexican rice—the envy of every Guzman who tries to replicate the recipe. Generous portions of food awaited my sister and me on her thick wooden table tainted with the aesthetically displeasing floral patterns on her cups and placemats. Florals have since become engrained in my head as an indication of old age.

But the grandma from my childhood never seemed to age. She was a short, plump and proud Mexican woman with all the confidence I could hope to attain by her age. She was always in the kitchen, always wearing the same cotton thermal underwear tops and bottoms. Year after year, when I visited her small home, I was expected to march straight to that wooden dinner table upon arrival where I was greeted with the foods she knew I loved. I didn’t know much about my grandma other than she loved me enough to feed me my weight in foods with a chicken bouillon aftertaste. And I felt safe whenever I sat down to eat in her home. Everything she cooked tasted better because I ate it in her kitchen, a modest space with warm carpeted floors, outdated brown tile and kitchenware she kept from her previous life in Mexico.

Her kitchen had all the reminders of family: family pictures from the early 90s taped onto her enamel icebox, their white edges visible from the rips and tears created by all the hands they have passed through.

Her home reflected the most important values I grew up with. There was always something cooking in her house because she knew the way into her family’s hearts was through their stomachs. Once I was old enough to understand the vulgarity of swear words, she yelled in my direction, “Pinche cabrón! You better stop fighting with your sister or I’ll kick your ass!” I let out a childish giggle because I found her obscenities endearing. Later on, I realized that what she meant to say was, “Without family, you have nothing.” And she was the best example of this. When she was up for the task, she would invite the family to her house to make tamales for Christmas. She made it easy for my six cousins and me to assemble the cornhusks and the masa—my favorite part of the tamal. Every year we formed an assembly line that stayed intact for just a few minutes because we got the bright idea of sneaking upstairs to steal animal crackers, artificial fruit cups and Welch’s grape juice from her pantry. We were gluttons, but my grandma wouldn’t have it any other way. Food brought the family together, so the more the better.

I remember the first time I went to my grandma’s house and wasn’t greeted with food. It was an afternoon last November after she was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. When she didn’t let me approach her for a kiss on the cheek, I turned the corner to see what was cooking. I realized that day that I had finally grown up and my grandma won’t always be there to remind me that I am nothing without my family.