Introspection part I:

Summer is over, but it is 6 o’clock and the sun is barely lowering its gaze on our little trailer in the country.  We’re celebrating.  Grandma has gone a week without complications at dialysis and picked enchiladas for dinner.  My grandmother periodically shouts little instructions from the living room into the kitchen because it’s my first time flying solo.  As the oil in the pan crackles and pops, I soften up the corn tortillas.  The radio interrupts the silence with vaguely familiar 70s disco music and transports me back to when we used to dance together.  As an eight year-old nothing compared to the rare chance to get decked out in Grandma’s art deco jewelry, boa feather scarves, silk robes and sequined high heels—except for when she joined me in my efforts to sort out the ‘dancing stuff’ to the likes of Elvis and The Beach Boys. 

But it was 70s disco music that I needed the most help dancing to and Grandma was happy to break it down for me.  While simultaneously demonstrating each of the movements, she would tell me:  “Stand with your feet apart!  Roll your shoulder,” but I didn’t see what that had to do with dancing.  Flustered, I rolled my right shoulder anyway.  She’d continue, “…now roll the other one” and I rolled my left shoulder, still not getting it.  “Good, now alternate,” and I’d roll my right shoulder then the left, then the right again and the left again.  “Shake your hips,” and I’d shake my hips discordantly from the music; I just wasn’t getting it—“How did this constitute dancing?” I wondered.   “Feel the music,” she told me, while giving me time to match my movements to the rhythm.    “Put it all together now,” she told me while shaking her hips and shimmying her shoulders looking like a disco queen.  I, on the other hand, probably resembled a frog caught in a blender.  But it didn’t matter.  When we it all put together, the parts made sense; I just hadn’t gotten a handle on them. 

Gloria Gaynor’s “I will survive” comes on the radio and now I’m back in the present.   In front of the stove I start shaking my hips, rolling my shoulders, and resembling a frog less than ever.  Seemingly reading my mind, Grandma makes her way from the couch then bursts into the kitchen in time to sing me the third line:  “…Kept thinkin’ I could never live/ without you by my side/ But then I spent so many nights/ thinkin’ how you did me wrong/and I grew strong/ and I learned how to carry on.”  She shoots me a meaningful glance and my eyes start welling up as my throat tightens.  The tempo changes, “But now you’re back/ From outer space,” and I move the pan of hot oil away from the burner; I know what’s coming next.  Grandma grabs my hand and yanks me to the center of the kitchen.  She shakes her hips and shimmies with her robe sash across her shoulders, and I get to dance with the disco queen again.   My mother joins us; together we belt out the chorus, “Oh no, not I/I will survive/as long as I know how to love/I know I’ll stay alive/I've got all my life to live/I've got all my love to give/and I'll survive/I will survive,” and dance as if Gloria herself is in the kitchen with us. 

At the end of the chorus, Grandma sits down to rest her legs.  I go back to listening to the oil crackle and pop while the corn tortillas bubble up slightly as they soften.  I’m so consumed by my thoughts that I barely notice my mother has added the beef and garlic to the caramelized onions.  “Lean on me” comes on the radio, and my mother knows my aching.  We hug.  She sings, “Sometimes in our lives/we all have pain/we all have sorrow/but, if we are wise, we know that there’s always tomorrow” then hugs me tightly until the chorus is almost over.  When she lets go, she wipes the tear off my cheek and we return to cooking. 

After we set the corn tortillas and meat aside to cool, I start boiling water in our largest saucepan.  Red sauce is the most temperamental part of making enchiladas.  With both determination and apprehension, I whisk together a little bit of flour and water and add the mixture to the boiling water, repeating the process until the sauce starts to thicken.  My brothers gravitate towards the aroma of the browned meat, garlic and caramelized onions--stealing bits of the goodness here and there.  When the sauce is near the right consistency, I start beating chili powder in with the water and flour mixture before pouring it into the saucepan.  The technique is repeated until the chili powder causes a deep terra-cotta color to bleed through the grayish liquid.  Grandma limps over to the stove to survey my progress.  “More chili,” she says.  “More salt,” she adds at the next taste test.  The end result is a medium-thick sauce with just enough salt to make the chili powder pop.  Grandma exclaims in approval, “Ay!  See?  I told you!”

Mom preheats the oven.  Immediately after I quarter another onion for the Spanish rice, the stench sets fire to my eyes.  My mom takes over the raw task of dicing the onions for me; she’s always been tougher like that.  I go outside to get some fresh air but my mind works against me and summons how we came to live in Comfort, Texas.  The name of the town seemed optimistic before, but now it seems bittersweet considering we’re in a double-wide trailer, without air conditioning or heat.  I remember the subject heading of the email:  “URGENT:  CALL HOME” and the phone call that I made to mom almost a year ago. 

“Sorry mom, it’s been crazy here.  What’s going on?  Is everything okay?” I asked her. 

“Grandma’s in the hospital.  Kidney failure.”  Sounds like crying.  “The doctors don’t expect her to make it through.”  More crying. 

“Clack-clack-clack,” sounds the keyboard as my fingers furiously pound the keys.  “Okay mom, I found a flight going from DC to San Antonio.  I’ll be there at 11 o’clock tomorrow morning.” 

The sun rises and I have already been in the air for an hour and a half.  For the first time, a sunrise looks mournful; seemingly crying with me as the yellows and oranges bleed through the blue horizon. 

            I shake off the memory and go back inside.  It doesn’t make sense yet.  Mom has fried the rice.  I take over; Spanish rice isn’t her strong suit.  After adding the water and tomato sauce, I wait till it hits a boil and then lower the heat to a simmer.  My grandma comes over to help me assemble the enchiladas.  We pop it in the oven.  In just a few minutes, our entire house is heavy with the potent essence of chili powder, garlic and onions melding with cheese.  Everybody’s mouth waters with anticipation.  We serve the enchiladas with shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes and a dollop of daisy (sour cream) on top with Spanish rice and refried beans on the side.  While sitting around and eating together, the whole makes sense.