This week as a part of the Northside Literacy Project, I was asked to write three different essays, each one about a thematically related concept. All three of the prompts had something to do with places, a place where I feel most at home, one way a place can influence a person, and whether where we are from defines us. I learned some very different lessons from writing all three.
First, I am very rusty at writing in a narrative mode. As much as I want to tell the story, it's hard to refrain from commenting on that story. Perhaps because I'mbossy assertive opinionated, I want to spell it out for the reader. I'm telling, not showing.
Second, I am addicted to long sentences. I knew this already, and I always think consciously about trying to trim down my rambling sentences and add shorter ones for variety. I rarely write simple sentences. I particularly love complex sentences with introductory phrases. And I'm going to start thinking more consciously about using the dash.
And finally, I miss writing and talking about ideas with a thoughtful community like the one found at Lit Pro this summer. Thank you to everyone who partnered with me, especially Carrie Ross, Brandi Benson, and Marisa Camareno who listened and gave me feedback. I enjoyed working with all of you.
The service was awful. Everything I had been thinking and feeling in the years leading up to her death came roaring back to me. I broke down in front of my children which made me feel ashamed and human all at the same time.
But the moment that I come back to when I think about that day is the gathering that happened afterward. After all the well wishers went home. After all the distant relations said their goodbyes. After all the anger and resentment of the last fifty years subsided. When we sat down together, my dad, my brother, my cousin Mike, and I, as a family once more time.
Someone, I can’t remember who, suggested we make grandma’s Great Depression tacos to remember her. Great Depression tacos are made with mashed potatoes and seasoned taco meat in a corn tortilla, and then lightly fried in oil. Suggested condiments include sliced avocado, lettuce, tomato, pickles, and Miracle Whip. I’ve never met anyone who has eaten something even vaguely similar, so I don’t know if these are her own creation or if she learned the recipe from her family. But they have been a comfort food staple in our household since I was a child.
First, I am very rusty at writing in a narrative mode. As much as I want to tell the story, it's hard to refrain from commenting on that story. Perhaps because I'm
Second, I am addicted to long sentences. I knew this already, and I always think consciously about trying to trim down my rambling sentences and add shorter ones for variety. I rarely write simple sentences. I particularly love complex sentences with introductory phrases. And I'm going to start thinking more consciously about using the dash.
And finally, I miss writing and talking about ideas with a thoughtful community like the one found at Lit Pro this summer. Thank you to everyone who partnered with me, especially Carrie Ross, Brandi Benson, and Marisa Camareno who listened and gave me feedback. I enjoyed working with all of you.
The Comfort of Food
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| My grandmother, Martha Kwan |
My grandmother died in August. I knew it was coming soon. She had been living in a nursing home for over a year, and although my dad and my aunt said she was still active, I never saw her move out of her chair. The last time I saw her, she couldn’t communicate above a whisper. She could gum her food, but she wouldn’t swallow it. She could sip her juice, but she was so tired she just held it in her mouth until it dribbled out the side. She was trapped inside her own body. Gone was her vibrant spirit, her willingness to take risks, to experience the moment, to live.
The service was awful. Everything I had been thinking and feeling in the years leading up to her death came roaring back to me. I broke down in front of my children which made me feel ashamed and human all at the same time.
But the moment that I come back to when I think about that day is the gathering that happened afterward. After all the well wishers went home. After all the distant relations said their goodbyes. After all the anger and resentment of the last fifty years subsided. When we sat down together, my dad, my brother, my cousin Mike, and I, as a family once more time.
Someone, I can’t remember who, suggested we make grandma’s Great Depression tacos to remember her. Great Depression tacos are made with mashed potatoes and seasoned taco meat in a corn tortilla, and then lightly fried in oil. Suggested condiments include sliced avocado, lettuce, tomato, pickles, and Miracle Whip. I’ve never met anyone who has eaten something even vaguely similar, so I don’t know if these are her own creation or if she learned the recipe from her family. But they have been a comfort food staple in our household since I was a child.
Watching my father frying up a batch of tacos in my kitchen, my brother and cousin and husband at the table, my children playing in the living room, was comforting in the way that only home and family can be. Years and distance have taken a toll on all of us. My dad and my brother live in the same city, but they are virtual strangers. I wish I could say something different about my cousin and I, but I can’t. How long has it been since we were all in the same room? I have no idea. But I do know that being there together, cooking in the kitchen and sharing a meal around the dinner table, felt like home. And I know that’s what my grandmother would have wanted.
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| Enjoying a classic San Antonio meal together at Jim's |
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