Archive for the ‘memory’ Tag

Anti-Positives (not Negatives) For Those Days When Sunny Positivity Just Can’t Cut It

As you know, I’m on a mission to center positivity, gratitude and kindness in my life. I want to be the best version of me that I can be, every day. But because I am human and imperfect, I don’t always succeed. Sometimes finding the silver lining, the “one good thing” in a day utterly full of crappy, negative experiences and energy is simply too much. Some days I just can’t fake it ‘til I make it.

On those days, honoring the darkness, letting the emotional, political, mental sludge breathe and have its moment in the middle is all I can do. And, if I’m both lucky and careful, that momentary dominance will satisfy the perverseness of the universe and let me pin that day to the past, moving forward into positivity once again. It’s brutal and not at all pretty to live through, but once on the other side, relief at having given the darkness that moment makes the light a little more bright and a little more bearable.

So that’s the silver lining, the good out of the bad.

But what gets you to that place is acknowledging the pain points, the dreck that’s built up and is clamoring to get out. Catharsis, I guess. But not necessarily just a good ol’ fashioned, wracking, sobbing cry. Sometimes it calls for naming the enemies, a litany of the poisons steeping in the blood, to extinguish their power and potency. Only after being called to the fore can some of these venoms be neutralized – the power of light to bleach the stain of the dark.

To that end, I’m braving my fears of vulnerability and derision to call out some of the poisons currently plaguing my peace:

Imposter Syndrome

Being a Pathetic Loser

Loneliness and the Fear it is Forever

Inadequacy in Every Dimension

Fixating on the Unobtainable

Reliving Humiliating Moments of the Past

Beating Myself Up for Giving in to Anger

Fear of Change

Wow. That’s a lot of mental and emotional poison.

I wrote all of that over a month ago, after nearly a month of lost sleep and continual stress. I set it aside to breathe, thinking that it was too raw and left me too exposed to actually publish. I thought I just needed to get it out of my head and it would be enough. But it hasn’t stopped.

So last night, Wednesday October 24th, while I was, again, not sleeping and after my eyes called it quits on reading anymore as an escape from the poisonous thoughts, I lay still and let the poison wash over me. I decided all the fighting I’d been doing to avoid it had been futile, so maybe giving it its freedom would bring some relief. Again, maybe if I honor the darkness it’ll let me go?

So I spent the entire night reliving the most cringeworthy, painful, humiliating moments of my life, watching each scene and acknowledging it’s continued sting. It felt like walking through a thrift store, cruising the aisles full of dusty, dented, useless junk that somehow still holds a degree of fascination, picking up items and replacing them on the shelves. It was a miserable experience, yet I managed to get to the end of the aisle without shedding a tear. Despite feeling the oppressive weight of humiliation and shame that each memory carried, I looked at each one and then set it aside without further judgment or sorrow.

No profound conclusions resulted and no existential clarity emerged. I did notice a pattern in the moments that rose to the surface and it’s still percolating through my brain trying to resolve into a clear shape that I can put a name to. But there’s been no epiphany.

Still, I think it helped, in some perverse way, to let my brain purge the dreck. I’m not certain that I won’t have to confront those moments again another time, but I feel that surviving that ordeal is a triumph. Even though it cost me a day of vacation time (I was in no shape to go to work today) and a day-long headache that’s still pounding, in addition to the night-long anguish, I’m calling it a win. It’s not a bright, shiny, joyous win, but a win nevertheless.

And because any positive out of all this oily, oozing darkness should be celebrated, I’m taking my courage in both hands and am publishing this very personal realness, despite feeling naked in the spotlight by doing so.

My Dad

This is the first Fathers Day I can recall spending entirely alone. My dad died when I was a teenager, but I’ve had uncles, brothers or chosen father figures that I’ve shared this day with, as far as I can remember, for every year since his death. This year things just worked out differently. 

I’ve seen a lot of stories, pictures and posts on social media today about dads in general, dads of particular friends, dad ‘substitutes’ and complicated dad relationships. I’m glad that there are many of my networks of friends who have loving fathers or fond memories of loving fathers. 
Memory can be comforting and complex and tricky, all at once. Since my memories of my dad are thirty years old this year (the last of them, at least) and growing farther away as each day passes, I try to carefully examine them before relying on them, so that I don’t lie to myself. But I am confident in at least one aspect of my memories of my dad: he loved me fiercely, deeply and well and did a great job of letting me know that in a lot of different ways. 
Just like all humans, my dad was flawed. He drank too much at times, was absent from home in favor of work more often than I liked, could be embarrassing in front of my friends and on occasion made my mother cry. 
And, just like every other human I know, my dad had some wonderful qualities and amazing skills that helped shape the beautiful human that he was. He thought about the world around him and tried to make it a welcome place for everyone. He laughed freely and inclusively. He considered it an honor and pleasure to be a father and husband. He chose to teach his kids to work hard, be brave, stand up for themselves and others, to always see the best in people, to never, never give up. He loved by providing a home and environment of safety, by giving of himself and teaching all of us by his actions that anger and violence are separate choices that need not be directed at loved ones even under provocation. He lived tolerance and peace in a community where he didn’t always receive it because of his brown skin and ‘foreign’ accent. He taught me to earn and keep respect of others by respecting myself. He loved me through discipline, of himself as much as of me. He loved me by loving my mother and siblings and me more than himself. 
There are many ways to love and raise children and make a family. It’s hard to judge if any is objectively right or wrong from the outside, when the big criminal things are, thankfully, absent (abuse, neglect, etc.).  But from my perspective, looking back to that long ago childhood when seeing my dad before he went to work or on rare days off made me happier than I can describe, all I can say is I think he did a great job of loving me and being my daddy. 
Happy Fathers Day, dad. Rest in power. 

Phobic

Day Seventeen: Your Personality on the Page

Today’s Prompt: We all have anxieties, worries, and fears. What are you scared of? Address one of your worst fears.

— — — — —
Today’s twist was to write in a different style (not different voice) than my usual style. I can’t muster the energy to try that. Instead, I’ll attempt to make my post about fear less heavy and ominous than the topic portends. 
— — — — —
I’m sure that my cavalier use of the term ‘phobic’ will irritate any clinicians who might see this, because it’s likely an imprecise application of the term. But its broader vernacular usage is what I’m going for: the general condition of having at least one irrational fear. By that definition, I surely am phobic. I definitely have at least one irrational fear. 
Indeed, I have several. Dogs, falling from heights, tight spaces, spiders, public humiliation, and clowns top the list. 
I’m aware that these fears are not based in reality in most circumstances. I know that if I am cautious, dogs, spiders, tight spaces and high places don’t present a present danger to my safety. And occasions that present real risk for true public humiliation are, thankfully, rare. Intellectually, I get it and can bring some degree of control when confronting these fears. 
But that last one…not so much. 
Clowns are just not susceptible to rationalization and reasoned consideration. Sorry to the millions of performing artists in this genre, but I have no ability to appreciate your art and am incapable of refraining from lumping you all into the category of Hell’s Minions To Be Avoided At All Costs. 
Coulrophobia is the fear of clowns. Naming my irrationality diminishes none of its impacts on my psyche. That it has a shmancy. Latin-rooted, scientific label only bolsters my conviction that there is really something to dread about the creepy, gaudy-makeup-wearing, potentially murderous, demon spawn. After all, no one would go to the trouble of naming a thing that wasn’t real, right? Right? Yes. 

My fear of clowns started when I was very young, about 3 or 4, I think. I remember going to the circus with my family. It was a common prize for good grades in our school district. Tickets were included in the report card envelope. I’m sure that my older siblings had earned the treat and my mom decided to take me with them to see the show. The animals were fascinating, the trapeze and tightrope acts thrilling, and the spectacle of it all just enthralling. That is, until the clowns came out. 

From the first one in the ring, riding a ridiculously small tricycle and wearing alarmingly clashing, over-sized clothes and truly horrific makeup, I was frantic. Because I didn’t fully comprehend that it was a costume and makeup, my young brain could not make sense of the vision that clown, all of the clowns, represented. They seemed to me nothing at all like the clowns I had seen on TV. There was was nothing comical, to me, in their appearance. Rather, they seemed to be these other-worldly entities with horribly exaggerated faces and strange hair on bizarrely huge heads. The plastic, unreal clothing, shoes and accessories just made the impression worse and harder for my brain to reconcile these things with what I understood people to be. 

Clamoring onto my mother’s lap, clinging to her with a death-grip and screeching at the top of my piercing voice, I made it clear to everyone in that tent, likely to everyone in that town, that I was not a fan of these clowns. 

I don’t remember all that happened after that, but I remember my mother moving faster that day than ever in my life to get me out of there. 

From that moment, clowns have been on my “no thank you” list. We had a paper mâché clown piñata as part of our Christmas decorations for my entire childhood. Not once did I play with it, ask to put it out with the other things, or beg to have the candy out of it. I hated that thing so much. I would turn it (using my feet, are you crazy!? I’d never touch it!) to face the wall every chance I got. It drove my mom nuts! 

Someone gave me a Charlie McCarthy ventriloquist dummy doll for Christmas one year. It had a clown-like face and freaked me out so badly! But I was older by this point and expected to say thank you and take care of it as a prized gift. I stuffed the thing in a pillowcase and threw it as far into the cupboard above my closet as I could get it. Every year when my mom did spring cleaning, she’d drag that evil thing down and ask why he was up there all alone in the dark. She’d straighten his jacket and place him carefully on my bed with the other stuffed toys and tell me to treat him nice. Heck no! Before the day was out he was back in solitary. There was no way on earth that I was sleeping with that demon killer on the loose!

Every clown-based horror flick is, I’m convinced, a true-crime documentary. I just know that one of these days science will prove a causal link between childhood clown-exposure and all manner of dementia and psychopathy. 
Nope, to me, there is every reason to loathe and despise clowns and exactly zero reasons to like them or, heaven forbid, invite them (as guests or decoration) into your home. 
Ok, now I have to go schedule some electroshock therapy or something, to get rid of this epic case of the creeps that writing this post has given me. Sheesh!


Treasure hunting in the garage 

Day Sixteen: Third Time’s the Charm

Today’s Prompt: Imagine you had a job in which you had to sift through forgotten or lost belongings. Describe a day in which you come upon something peculiar, or tell a story about something interesting you find in a pile.

— — — — —

When I was a kid, I loved to climb into the loft over our garage and poke around in the boxes and cubbies stored up there. Of course, I was definitely not allowed to go up there and certainly not allowed to snoop my way through the trove of interesting things that could be found there. 

That didn’t stop me, though. 

The loft was, to my mischief-filled, pre-pubescent mind, a mysterious world of shadow and hidden relics. I was convinced, at eight years old, that there was a doorway to another world hidden behind a stack of crates in the back corner. I was sure that if I could master my fear of the dark and of spiders, I would one day wander into Neverland, or Narnia, or The Hundred Acre Wood. 

That never happened, much to my sorrow. But many a Saturday afternoon adventure happened in the dusty gloom of that loft. 

It required daring and agility to gain the attic. Rickety wooden steps stopped in a square landing about six feet above the threshold of the door into the garage from the laundry room in our house. But there was still a gap of several feet between the top of the landing and the edge of the loft floor. So you either had to bring a step stool up to the landing, or do a pull-up, to shimmy on your belly over the edge. I did both, but the pull-up most often, until I had a growth spurt and my strength to weight ratio betrayed me. 

Junk. Most of the contents of the loft fit that description. But I didn’t think so then. All of it was discovery, excitement and thrills. Interesting cases covered in dried, flaking leather, or pasteboard boxes printed with stripes or flowers or polka dots captured my imagination. Every cardboard packing box represented a chance to unearth treasure of unimagined dimension. 

I remember finding a red leather case with faded green velvet lining housing a full set of shiny, steel, precision drafting tools. These were a relic of my oldest brother’s one semester of architectural engineering at college. The tools had been my great uncle’s; he was a builder in West Texas in the first half of the twentieth century. My grandmother had lent them to my brother for school, but they ended up in the loft when he switched majors. I wanted so badly to keep and learn to use them, but my mother wouldn’t allow it. 

Another time, I came across a box full of chefs magazines and spent an entire afternoon looking through them, drooling over all the amazing pictures of fantastic dishes. The desserts were of most interest, of course. But the photography was so exquisite that even dishes showing things I knew I could never eat captivated me. Then, in a stunning discovery, I found myself reading a profile about my own father. In an internationally recognized magazine. My dad. I was so chuffed to see it, I ended up busting myself by running into the house with the issue in my hand, hollering about it to my mom. She grounded me for being in the loft without permission. But she kept the magazine in the house for a long time. I loved looking at it, because it gave me a glimpse into my dad’s world outside our family. 

Digging through the saved tidbits of days past can be nostalgic and emotional, even traumatic. But, with the right mix of child-like wonder, curiosity and daring, adventure can be found in every forgotten corner and dusty crate. 

Middle of the Block

Day Eleven: Size Matters (In Sentences)

Today’s Prompt: Where did you live when you were 12 years old?

Today’s twist: pay attention to your sentence lengths and use short, medium, and long sentences as you compose your response about the home you lived in when you were twelve.

— — — — —

Oof. This ones a bit rough and rambling. But I’m not going to edit. It was fun to write and is a glimpse into my awkward past.

— — — — —
I had a lovely childhood. Not perfect. No one has a perfect life. Sometimes, the imperfections add interest and character without destroying the beauty. That’s how I feel about where and how I grew up.

It was a big town for a sparsely populated state. As a kid, I thought we lived “in the city”. (Those quotation marks were present in my head whenever I considered our home town. I thought in quotes. Weird.) To me, it was a huge, exciting place full of amazing things. And I wanted to see them all.

From my perspective, being a “city girl” helped explain why I was so different from what I learned to believe the world expected all girls should be. I lived in a big city, so I had to be tough and ready for anything, not some frilly princess. My jeans and rough sneakers and ratty t-shirts were armor, they were my first layer of tough. I believed I would grow the tough inside to match my clothes, if I worked hard enough.

Never mind that I lived in a perfectly lovely, ranch-style house in the middle of the block on a bucolic street in a Beaver Clever town. There was little that I had to be tough against that didn’t live in my imagination. But that’s how I thought of myself, a tough city girl in a big city.

The reality, looking back with 34 years of life between me and 12 year old me, is very different. Not better or worse. Just different. I imagine I have a clearer sense of what reality was back then, because I have grown and matured since then. But, I’m not going to pass judgment on the quality of my 12 year old assessment of her then-reality. What I believed back then made sense for who I was then.

At 12 years old, I was the epitome of the grubby, awkward, tomboy so often depicted in movies and literature. It’s hard now to decide if I came by it organically or if I was heavily influenced by those media tropes. Whatever the origin, that was me. Even then, perhaps especially then, I was out of sync with my surroundings.

My house in the middle of the block was neat, with trimmed grass and big, shady trees in the front yard. It started off an oddly aqua colored clapboard house with a big screen porch. Then, at some time in my childhood that I can’t pinpoint, my parents had aluminum siding put on, turning it white with black shutters. They put in plexiglass windows on the porch, though left the corrugated fiberglass roof of the porch a jarring, mis-matched green.

Despite the odd porch, our house in the middle of the block was nice-looking and welcoming. It matched the other houses on the block, mostly. Each one had at least one small oddity about it. The brick Tudor-esque house across the street was tidy, but had foil on several windows, instead of curtains. The house to the right of ours was occupied by a wonderful elderly couple, yet had a speedboat parked in the driveway most of the year. The house to the left had the meanest dog in the world, even though it didn’t weigh 10 ponds. And the house at the top of the block was scary, as much because of the heavy traffic that flowed past it constantly on a busy thoroughfare, as because of the barren yard with twisting, exposed tree roots that seemed to magnetically attract balls and other toys that were brought too near.

Our block was split by an alley that ran behind our house, separating my side of the block from the other, where lived the boy who was my most frequent playmate. Only half a block, but a foreign world to my youthful eyes. I always felt a stranger in a new world when I rounded that corner on my bike. But I grew to love that street as much as my own, even though it wasn’t home.

The house directly across the alley from ours was basically a junk yard. There was such a huge mess of rusting metal and unidentifiable debris, I always marveled that the inhabitants could find their way to the alley to take out the trash.

At twelve years old I yearned constantly to explore that junkyard, but (a) I wasn’t allowed to speak to those people (some long forgotten feud that I never understood); and (b) I was terrified of their dog ripping my head off if I went in uninvited. So I’d hang out in the fort I built in my back yard and plot endless excursions to the junkyard that went unfulfilled. Daydreams of an awkward kid in a play fort.

You might think twelve is a little old for forts and such. But it was so much more than a play place. It was my own world. I didn’t actually build it. Nature did. But I made it my own with cool stuff scavenged from hither and yon on the block. A wooden cable spool was both chair and table. An old school desk was there for a while, until I nearly cut my finger off with the lid hinge (a story for another time). A secret cache for treasures, and toys and gizmos of every type made my fort the best, homiest place I knew.

It was just a hollow space formed by massive lilac bushes growing along the fence line, creating a pocket behind themselves at the far corner of the yard. But, to my pre-pubescent mind, it was a magnificent sanctuary.

At twelve, amid my awkwardness in my eminently normal family in our lovely square house in the middle of the block, I often craved solitude. My fort provided it. When the pressure of being too odd, too big, too loud, got to be too much, I’d head out to my fort where I could be myself without anyone looking at me funny. I would sit on my spool and read leaning back against the trunk of a tall elm tree growing through one of the lilac bushes. Or else I’d listen to the birds and be so still, willing them to come visit. They never did. Sometimes, I’d just go there to think. Always the fort was my own oasis.

When I couldn’t be out in my fort, I hung out in my room. It was less oasis and more chamber of opposites.

Our house in the middle of the block started off as a three bedroom house with an unfinished basement. My folks semi-finished the basement, forming bedrooms for my brothers and a rec room with the bulk of the space. Upstairs, after my sister left home, they took out the wall between their room and hers, making a large master bedroom. But everyone had a spot of their own.

Around about my eleventh birthday, maybe a little before, my parents made what would become a last-ditch effort to make me more of a girl. They remodeled my room, painting it dusty rose and cream, giving me a lace canopy bed and a fuzzy pink rug. It was everything I was not. But my parents worked so hard to give me something lovely, I couldn’t reject it. So, even though it was a place that I felt completely disconnected from, it was my own. I spent a lot of time in there. Study, play, quiet reading time were all my occupation in that prickly pink room. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was private.

The rest of our house was more comfortable to me. Lots of places to sit in a big, open living room. Shag carpet and long curtains made it quiet and pleasantly dark or light, as one desired. There was space enough for everyone, though we didn’t often test the limits of its capacity.

The dining room at the back of the house was an addition before we moved in and was constantly freezing in winter. But the tiny galley kitchen, though cramped, was the hub of life in our house. It served as intended, to prepare meals. But it was also the messaging center with phone and note space on the wall next to the stove. It showcased achievements in pictures and ribbons and report cards on the fridge. And if anything was ever missing, checking the kitchen catch-all drawer or the freezer (I said I was a weird kid), usually found it fastest.

Our house in the middle of the block was as never the height of fashion. It was furnished with big, heavy, western style wooden furniture in durable fabrics with busy prints that stood up to wear. The massive couch and swivel rockers invited you to sit and enjoy each other’s company, despite the busy fabric pattern. But whatever it looked like, the home was only a home because of our family.

We were a family that strove to project an image of middle class values and normalcy. Despite being the token interracial family in the neighborhood, I think we succeeded pretty well. We were busy, active and private. We had friends and acquaintances who visited occasionally, but we kept to ourselves, mostly. We checked in with each other, helped each other, argued and made up with each other. And at the center of it all was our square house in the middle of the block, where we lived and loved together as a family.

Love lived in that square house in the middle of the block. That’s what I remember most about where I lived at twelve years old.

Empanadas

Day Ten: Happy (Insert Special Occasion Here)!

Today’s Prompt: Tell us something about your favorite childhood meal — the one that was always a treat, that meant “celebration,” or that comforted you and has deep roots in your memory.

Today’s twist: Tell the story in your own distinct voice.

— — — — —
I’m cheating. Yesterday’s Writing 101 prompt was an exercise in point of view. I didn’t do it. It didn’t interest me enough to research what that truly means. So I’m skipping it and doing today’s instead. But maybe because this post is “in my own distinct voice”, this can count as both a point of view piece and a description of memory piece. Whaddya think?
— — — — —
I love empanadas. They’re tasty, conveniently hand-held, and just a tiny bit exotic (at least from my perspective in middle-of-nowhere America). Empanadas also remind me strongly of my childhood.

My Puerto Rican father brought these tasty treats to our distinctly non-Hispanic (until he married my mom and produced little brown babies) family. They were the food of his own youth and, being a chef, he put his own special twist on them, sometimes.

I remember learning to make them with him. A memory I treasure, as it was a rare event when he let me be in the kitchen while he cooked. Unlike my brothers, who were often pinch-hitters for his absent staff in his restaurants, my sister and I were not allowed to be anything other than guests when visiting him at work. So, when he cooked in our home kitchen, a much smaller facility, he kept everyone out, especially me.

I must have been eight or nine years old, because my brothers were grown, but my second brother hadn’t yet gotten married (which happened in August of my 9th year), when I got the chance to cook with my dad. In fact, I seem to recall him saying that it would be good practice for when he cooked for my brother’s wedding, now I think on it. Anyway, I was fairly young and still too short to safely reach the back of the stove-top. Yet he let me come in and watch.

After washing my hands and putting on one of his long, white chef’s aprons, dad looked at me very seriously from his huge, shiny brown eyes, and told me “Baby, this is no game! We’re here to cook. That’s business.” I remember thinking I was very grown up and was about to learn a big, adult secret. So I nodded with all the gravity my young soul could gather. “Good!” And he snapped his fingers and turned to the countertop.

From there, it was all fun, happy and, at the same time, diligent work. He showed me how to use a chef’s knife to dice, chop and julienne, though I got no hands-on experience that particular day. It was both fascinating and intimidating to watch his blade and hands dance across the cutting board. I remember watching intently, leaning so close, trying to memorize every stroke, that he had to stop and move me back a step for safety.

Then the dough. He would often say, when asked about his job, that he wasn’t a pastry chef and he didn’t bake. But he was more than merely proficient at making various types of dough-based foods. This part was fun and messy. Puffs of flour clouded the air as I used the squeaky metal sifter with a worn wooden handle painted red. I learned to break eggs with one hand and only dropped one shell into the bowl! We mixed first with our hands and then a fork. Dad avoided the mixer for this dough, he said, because it would get too stiff.

Flipping the cutting board over, he dusted it with flour and rolled out the dough. I used a butter knife and a ramekin to cut out the shells. That was fun, too. The dough was so soft in my hands as I moved them onto the baking sheet to rest that I just wanted to hold them. But, no, there was work to do.

It was time to make the filling. I got to help with this, too. My mom had taught me already how to seer hamburger, so I wasn’t afraid of the stove. I stood on a low step stool in front of the range and watched carefully as the finely diced onion and garlic sweated in a small circle of oil in the skillet. I knew not to stir them, but wait for the onion to turn clear and then the edges to turn golden brown. Then we added spices: “some coom-eeee-no, some Cayenne, some salt, just a bit”. Only the last three words, said in his unique accent, always sounded to my young ears, like “shoes to fit”. And Cumin was always pronounced with loooooong, drawn out vowels into a word only he could pull off. Indeed, I was well into my twenties before I knew which word he was actually pronouncing! But he knew and he loved to say it his own way.

After heating the spices, we quickly browned off the beef and drained the fat. Then, standing side-by-side at the counter, we used big table spoons to fill the dough circles with the fresh beef mix. I can still conjure the heady fragrance of the peppery spices and earthy beef and my dad’s aftershave. I can still see him smile at me every time I got the goop into the middle without dripping.

When the circles were full, we washed hands again and put some water in the ramekin I’d used earlier. Then, taking a fork in my right hand, dipping my left hand fingers into the water, I moistened the edge of one circle at a time, folding it in half over the beef mix and crimping with the fork. We worked in near silence, building a rhythm that made quick work of the prep.

Last came the frying. Dad didn’t let me do any of this, but I stood in the doorway watching. And listening; there’s nothing quite exactly the same as the sound of hot Crisco in a cast iron skillet. The hot, hissing sound that the moist dough makes as it hits the melted shortening is kind of frightening. But I loved watching my dad do this.

The kitchen was hot and his brown skin was shiny against his white t-shirt and apron. He squinted a little each time he put a new empanada into the oil, because the oil popped and sputtered. But he was at ease, focused on the task, yet comfortable talking to me about the process while he flipped each half-moon pie.

When the last one was added to the pile of golden pockets heaped on the draining rack, he turned off the stove, wiped his hands on a towel that he flipped onto his shoulder, and said “Ok, let’s clean up.” He had been cleaning as we went through all the steps. He explained to me that was a cardinal rule of his kitchen, so the work area would be safe at every step. Safe from hazards to us, but also safe for the food–avoiding spoiling and cross-contamination. So there wasn’t much to do, but it could NOT wait until later. “The job isn’t done until the kitchen is clean.”

I don’t remember him ever talking so much to me as he did that day. He was a quiet man, on the whole. He laughed and joked and talked, but not over-much. But he was talking directly to me that day. Kind of like he talked to other adults. I was so proud of that. Still am.

There was nothing particularly special or unusual about those empanadas. But they tasted like heaven that day. It’s that day in the kitchen with my dad that makes me think of empanadas as a special occasion food. And I still love eating them whenever I get the chance.

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