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If I was running right now, I’d stop in my tracks. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say. I don’t think I’ve ever attended a meal at this house where meat was not served—it’s integral to their family’s food scene.
“Of course we did,” Ana shrugs like I’m silly. “I also made this extra spicy,” she smiles, pushing a dish of dark reddish-brown salsa across the island counter to me. “My son here said nothing is spicy enough for you right now, which is hard to believe, so I’d like to see it for myself.”
A giggle bursts out of me and I stare mouth agape at my best friend. “What?” First, I can’t believe he would even think to tell his moms to make a meatless meal. I expected carne asada, tacos al pastor, anything but cheese and potato enchiladas. He did this for me?
Thankfully, Ana cuts in before I start crying at the simple and sweet gesture. “I tried it myself,” she says pointing to the dish, her smile disappearing. “I can’t handle it.” Incredibly tempted and already salivating at the thought of something finally being spicy again, I quickly take a tortilla chip and scoop a large portion of salsa.
“Whoa,” Raf mumbles. Apparently, he expected me to daintily dip the chip to test it first. I didn’t come here to fuck around.
Just looking at the salsa I can tell it’s mostly made of peppers and seeds. What kind? I don’t give a shit as long as it lights up my mouth. My first registered taste is salt and the corn of the tortilla. Next is the tomato, and then…
No.
No.
I can’t taste the heat—the spice—the whole reason I eat salsa in the first place! Everyone has halted what they’re doing to watch me closely. Maybe it’s a delayed heat? I finish chewing and swallow then suck in a little gasp of air, hoping the heat will be triggered by air flow.
Nothing.
I take another chip, a bigger scoop, and a faster bite.
Nothing.
“What kind of peppers did you use?” I ask a wide-eyed Ana.
“Chipotle, jalapeño, but mostly ghost peppers.”
“I have to try this,” Raf says, reaching next to me and taking his own delicate bite and immediately coughing, tears springing from his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Ang. I need milk,” he wheezes, launching for the refrigerator and chugging the two percent.
He’s so theatrical sometimes.
Raf sets up some dinner music, a low instrumental playlist of pop songs throughout the decades. When we finally sit, the anger at my nonexistent spice palate flits away when the first bite of seasoned potatoes and mole hit my tongue and memories flood back. Ana’s mole is powerful like that. The first time I had it I was eleven or so. I remember being confused as to why cocoa and nuts would be in a sauce and it wouldn’t be sweet. It took me a few dinners to get used to it, but once I did, I begged her to make it all the time. By the time I was thirteen, I was making it myself and serving it to my family. I’m not sure if Ana knows that the Johanssen family mostly ate what she taught me. What Christina taught me about grilling too.
What these women taught me wasn’t always about food though. They showed me how to be a child while taking care of a family. They provided me space to be free and stupid and creative. They watched my siblings when Dad was working on the weekends, invited us all over for fiestas, movie nights, and board games. They’d come over with bags of corn husk tamales, enough to feed everyone for a week—at least until my brothers were all teenagers, then it fed them for a day.
When my siblings got older, we’d all go over and help prepare food together—forming an assembly line to make homemade corn tortillas and trays of enchiladas to be frozen. I don’t even want to think about how many thousands of dollars these two women spent on feeding and hosting us.
They didn’t have to. They could have let us struggle to find attention. Could have let us eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches most nights. Could have ignored the signs of children desperate for more love—more than a single, grieving father working hard to make ends meet could give.
Of course, I still ended up being a parentified child, despite Christina and Ana’s efforts—I don’t think I could have avoided it entirely, but it could have been so much worse.
College was the first time I was able to break out of that role thrust upon me. Our college was two hours away—just far enough from home that I could live on campus but be home every weekend if needed or for an emergency. Isaiah certainly stepped up to take care of the rest of our siblings, but he’d still call me every other day for advice.
The transition to college wasn’t a difficult one for me. While I saw students fail out left and right that first year, I always wondered how they managed to do that. It wasn’t until I was older, and it dawned on me that many of the students didn’t know how to live on their own, manage their time, personal life, and classes. It came so naturally to me because I had been doing this for myself and my family for years.
Responsibility for myself and others has been ingrained into me—it’s something I rarely shed except around people like Cora, Rafael and his family. College gave me the opportunity to find myself outside of my siblings—to live and experience life as a young woman.
When Raf and I tried to find ourselves in high school, to find where we fit in, I was still largely responsible for my brothers and sister. When we went to college though, I tried to take those countless interests and hone-in on what really inspired me. By the time I graduated with my master’s degree, I was a different woman entirely to the innocent freshman I once was. I had grown in confidence and understanding of myself, and what I knew for certain was that I was curious.
That’s what it all boiled down to.
Curiosity.
Our random playlists. Our diverse friend groups. Our questionable wardrobes.
Becoming a children’s counselor made complete sense because I had been playing this role with my siblings. So it was all too fitting to learn while taking those courses what I was made into, and then learn that the only way to heal was to have emotional awareness of it.
When the instrumental music changes to Dancing Queen, Christina gasps a little as she slices up the fruit tart. “That reminds me. There’s an ABBA cover band coming in a couple weeks, so if you want tickets let me know.”
