At El Comal I echo the sounds
of Grandma’s order,
but my tongue stumbles
on re-whel-tas,
re-bel-tas, re-vuel-tas.
The best ones are made by hand,
the edges taking the palm’s shape,
before pressing onto a hot comal
so the masa crisps up sweet. To eat,
I mirror Grandma’s steady hands—
top each pupusa with cabbage slaw
and fresh salsa roja,
then layer the perfect bite:
crispy, salty, fatty, sweet.
Side-by-side we eat, silent
but for the crunch, swallow, and
“Dios te bendiga, mi niña.”
Always order two.
At school they called me whitewashed
because I couldn’t roll my r’s.
I didn’t speak but
I felt the word’s heat.
Re-vuel-tas.
Pupusas are Salvadoran, not Mexican
but the ingredients are the same:
meat, cheese, masa,
shaped by worn palms.
In Mom’s kitchen
Grandma’s bare hands
turn taquitos over oil’s
pops and sputters.
I never see her flinch.
“Quieres algo más, mi nińa?”
I know this:
Do I want more frijoles,
more arroz, more taquitos
fried so crispy
they shatter between my young teeth?
I can’t speak but I can eat
everything on my plate to say
gracias, mi abuela,
te amo.
Now Grandma watches the news
with her Bible on a TV tray.
Most of her pots and pans live
in my kitchen cupboards.
Her favorite skillet, on my stove.
Her hands, too tired
to heat tortillas over the flame
so I char my own,
fingers never flinching in the fire.
How many times did I turn
past her house without stopping?
What do you eat
when you have nothing to say?
The new restaurant on Main
says their food is autentico.
Here, I can speak. Let me judge
the broken tortillas, watery beans, pale rice
even more whitewashed than me.
But the pupusas—
In silence I sit.
Palms indent their fresh edges.
The crispy, salty, fatty, sweet bite,
the crunch, the swallow,
shoulders touching and hands
reaching for more.
The menu tells me, in English,
what revuelta means
(ground pork, beans, cheese).
Re-vuel-ta, still scrambled on my tongue.
The server reads back my order
and I say sí. To go.
On my way,
I practice:
Te traje la cena.
Pupusas de revueltas.
What I mean is:
Gracias, Grandma.
Te amo. Lo siento.