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And then I wake up and do it all again.
Is this the successful life my parents wished for me? Some days I can’t help but wonder.
Chapter two
Julieta
“Hola,” I call out,walking right into the house without knocking. I’m right on time for our weekly Sunday family dinner.
My brother, Dario, is already on the couch, channel surfing. I lean down to give him a kiss on the cheek in greeting.
The walls I walk by are covered with Argentinian relics and family photos in mismatched frames. I make it to the kitchen where I find my mom battling trays of empanadas. She fills a dough round, folds it over, and expertly twists the ends into a decorative shape, the kind I could never figure out how to do.
“Hola, ma,” I say, peeking into the pot of empanada filling dreamily. My cousin Agostina bursts in shortly after me, calling out, “Hola!”
When she makes her way to the kitchen, she doesn’t think twice as she grabs a spoon from the drawer, digs right into the pot, and stuffs her mouth full of the meat and olive mixture.
“Agostina!” my mom cries out.
I try to hide my laugh on the walk back into the living room. “She’s going to ban you from eating empanadas,” I tell her over my shoulder.
Agostina loves to eat the filling right out of the pan every time my mom makes it, not that I can blame her. Always little spoonfuls that don’t really make a dent in the amount. At least, it never appears that way. But those spoonfuls add up. One time, she ate so much of it there was one dough round left, but no more filling for it. My mom was so upset, she didn’t stop talking about it for six months.
“No, she won’t,” she responds, matter of fact.
She’s probably right. My mother loves to feed her family, finds immense joy in it, no matter how pissed she is at them.
I’m about to sit down on the couch next to my brother when my mom calls me back into the kitchen to help. My other cousin Delfina is already in there dressing thickly sliced tomatoes with olive oil, salt, and dried oregano.
“Hey,” I greet her.
“Hey, what’s up?” She answers without looking up, her light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Soon enough, the house is bursting with sound from my aunts getting everything ready for dinner. Tía Silvia is throwing a tablecloth over the dining table, tía Ana is in the corner of the kitchen pouring glasses of red wine, and tía Cecilia, back home after a quick trip to Argentina, is talking loudly over soft music playing in the background.
My dad was outside tending to the asado, but he steps in quickly to grab a couple of beers.
“Hola, pa.”
He kisses my cheek, the smell of smoke and charred meats lingering as he greets me, and then heads back out just as fast.
Grabbing the silverware, I decide to head to the dining room. I start setting the table quietly, enjoying the ritual in this warm,loving home. The table gets pieced together with mismatched chairs, the leaf extended to fit all of us. The center is adorned with wine glasses, a bowl of baguette slices, and the tomatoes that Delfina has just set down.
This house is lived in and loved in. It’s not new, built in 1960. I’ve always loved that fact though. This house was built the same year my mother was born. I love to think that when she came into this world in one country, bricks were being laid in another. A foundation was being set for a place that she would—in thirty-six years’ time—call her own.
I remember when we immigrated to the States when I was little. My mother and father came first, accompanying my grandparents to a competition they were attending. My parents fell in love with it here, and started daydreaming about all of the possibilities for them, for the family. A whimsical, elaborate daydream that took flight when my father decided, almost too quickly, that he wanted to move. It involved a lot of conversations, weighing the risks, and then, once it was decided, we packed our belongings into large luggage and made the trek to a new world.
My father Julio, along with my mother Maria, and Dario—who was almost three at the time—moved to build a new life in a new place with a new language. I often wonder how they did it. How they got the courage to uproot their lives, everything that they had ever known, and move it to the unknown. They were filled with hope and bravery, the kind I can only dream about.
The rest of the family soon followed. My tía Ana—my mother’s sister—and her husband Fernando packed up and moved with Agostina and her older brother Leo. My tío Luis, his wife Silvia, and Delfina joined us after that. And then my tía Cecilia came over last.
Maybe having all of us together helped the process. My cousins and I grew up together and learned to navigate this newcountry, learning the language and the customs together, too. We’ve all been close since birth.
And even as we’ve all grown up and fallen into our adult lives, one thing still stands, and that is Sunday night family dinner. Always hosted by my mom, who cooks enough to feed fifty, and sends us all home with a mountain of leftovers.
Dario, Leo, and my uncles walk into the dining room, ready to feast now that most of the work has been handled.
“Che, y las empanadas?” Dario asks, eyeing the dishes on the table.
