The Little Room

Many Mexican proverbs come from the kitchen: spicy food comes from an angry cook; cuchara caída traes invitados, and sure enough every dropped spoon brought guests, but dropping a big spoon will specifically bring hungry ones. I never questioned the logic behind these, especially because they were only refranos. I guess the thing that mattered most was the fact that it came from the kitchen, which is quite possibly the center of most Mexican homes.

Our home was small, and I’m not being modest. For a family of six, including myself, there were only 2 bedrooms, 1 living room, 1 kitchen, 1 bathroom, and this awkward room with no specific purpose other than to separate kitchen and bathroom; we deemed it “The Little Room” as it was such.

When Mom cooked, the entire house would fill with the scent of that meal. Even if you were to stand outside and closely lean against the window, you’d be able to tell what was for dinner. Sometimes you would even be able to tell which spices she was using, and determine if she was using too much of them. I swear Mom always put in too much cumino in the rice, because she knew I hated it so much. In a way, she made the rice especially for me, except she made it in the exact way I didn’t like.

Every meal consisted of three parts: beans, rice, and some form of meat. Dinner was the one time during the day where everybody came together and connected. The conversations usually start with my parents’ complaints about how my sister only eats rice, because she hates beans and meat. Then they’d move on to how little rice I eat. I’ll complain about the cumino. Mom will tell me to cook the rice next time. I accept the challenge. She takes it back on account that I will try to cook, despite the fact that I can’t. My father will then interrupt with his story of how the first food in the U.S. that he ever ate was bologna—not even a sandwich, just the meat, and it was “amazing” and one reason why “America’s a great country” is because of its cheap luxuries.

Everybody knew the speech, the hand gestures, which questions to ask, how to react. By the time dad finished his monologue, everybody finished eating. Mom refuses to wash the dishes after she cooks a meal, so my sister and I argue over whose turn it is to wash the dishes. I lose, because she keeps a meticulous account of who-washed-dishes-when.

It’s alright though, because washing the dishes is sort of fun. I mean, I get to listen to music and see things get clean. I like watching infomercials with the special chemical that can renew century-old rust and make wine stains disappear from white carpet. Washing the dishes is the same in the way that things were being renewed, but different in that I was the one renewing. It sounds ridiculous, but I guess mom is right when she says I’m too philosophical, which is something we can’t afford.

Our family wouldn’t and couldn’t benefit from a philosopher; it needed a scientist or lawyer—something cold, concrete, and of assured success. A philosopher would compensate his starvation by asking if the food with which he’s deprived actually existed, but we starved too long to be able to elude ourselves from reality. It was that simple, and I always liked science and math anyways. I couldn’t help to think these things while I watched old, dirty dishes turn new.

I saw my family as one of many stacked plates waiting its turn until we were renewed. Then mom walks in the kitchen, complains that the music is too loud, realizes she likes this song, and tells me to dance with her. I always thought the beat for tejano was too slow for a dance, so I refuse. She tells me it’s not a choice, so she grabs me by the hand, and the plate shatters to pieces. We pick up the pieces, and she tells me to keep doing the dishes and that I still owe her a dance. Putting away the dishes after their cleaning always reminded me of how small our kitchen was.

We’d stick pots and pans in our oven, but you’d find pots and pans anywhere—under the bed, on the washing machine, in the microwave and even our garage. We had no cupboard; instead, we used the same cabinets above the washing machine where we kept the bleach and insecticides. I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing, but we had no choice, the oven was full. We barely had enough room for a table, but my mom dreamt of a day when she’d get her own island. Dad assured her that day would come eventually; everyone was surprised when it did.

The new house is bigger and, supposedly, better, but I always found comfort in tiny places. This time, we have a cupboard and even a dishwashing machine, although we use it only for storage. The smell of cumino that would pervade every cubic inch of our old house diffuses into nothing. It wasn’t the same.

In the old kitchen, I could see the spot where I ate my first jalapeno. My father told me it was Mexican candy, and that’s why I ate it whole; yes, that’s including the seeds. I remember it clearly: I took it from the jar, wondered why it smelt so strangely, but my father assured me that was the overwhelming fume of sweetness. And so I stuck my hand in the jar, put the green pepper in my mouth, and chewed. The next minutes or so were spent trying to annihilate the fire with chugs of water.

I could also see where mom taught me how to dance cumbia, where I was caught mid-kiss, where I was beat to tears, and where I reconciled with God. The new house has none of this.