From Sopa to Hot Cheetos

Ashley Santana

Seminar

October 10, 2016

From Sopa to Hot Cheetos and Cheese

I remember when I was younger our dinner evenings at home went like this: Mom makes the food, Dad watches the game, Daniel and Brenda are doing something they’ll regret later on, and I’m quietly reading my Barbie book in the corner. At the age of seven, she was my favorite character. Mom was making her easiest recipe; sopa. It had been a long day for her, or at least that’s what she was telling Dad. He was feeding our dog, Blue, while she kept going on about an annoying customer.

            The smell of tomatoes and cilantro filled my nose as I fulfilled my diner duty of taking out forks and putting them on placemats. I recount how many forks I got out, not daring to touch the butter knives Mom and Dad use. Mom told me I’ll cut my hand off, and I need my hand in order to play with my toys. I look back towards the stove at Mom, waiting to be told what to do next. Her belly was huge with a tiny monster living inside her. Dad calls that monster “the Baby”, but I know it isn’t one. Mom says it kicks her a lot, which makes me mad because no one is allowed to kick my Mom. I don’t understand why it isn’t getting in trouble for kicking because if I kick Daniel then I would be in big trouble, so it isn’t fair.

            I look back at Dad, he’s across from me on the table. The Cowboys are on, so of course he’s watching the game, completely oblivious to the fact that Daniel is stuffing Cheerios up his nose to make Brenda laugh in their highchairs. Growing up in South Texas taught me that football was life, and whether it be high school or professional, it was always around.

“Time to eat. Ashley, go wash your hands. Ani, can you help me serve the kids?” my Mom shouts. I leave to the bathroom, overhearing my parents’ conversation.

“But honey, the game is on!”

“I don’t care, I can’t serve three kids by myself. And you need to wash your hands also, they’re filthy.”

“Uh-oh, Daniel stuffed the cheerios up his nose again” Dad finally saw. He got a paper towel and forced Daniel to blow out, hoping the cheerios would come out of his button nose.

“Dammit Ani, you were supposed to be watching them!” Mom shouted.

            I return to my seat at the table. Daniel and Brenda already have their bowls in front of them, with an orange five o’clock shadow around their mouths.  My bowl is on my Barbie placemat, with a scoop of Pico de Gallo in it.

 “Daddy, it’s too hot. Can you blow on it to make it cooler for me?” I ask.

“Yeah mamas, just let me see this last play. Then I’ll do it for you.”

Mom comes and leans over me, blowing on my food because she knows too well that my father could be distracted by the game for hours. Slowly, I grab the warm tortillas from the towel on the table. I tear pieces off, and use it as my utensil. The small noodles floated alongside the cilantro pieces. The orange water seeped into the smushed beans and tomatoes. The greasy water stained everything it touched, from the bowl, my tortilla, and my hands. Mini batches of sopa wrapped in tortilla entered my mouth, each piece better and bigger than the previous. The cilantro and tomato tastes so good with the Pico, and with the tortilla it somehow made it even better.

 I always had a napkin on my lap, just like grandma when she eats. Except, I taught myself to put a tortilla on top of it, so that if I drop food on myself, it would fall onto the tortilla and when I check it would be a ready to eat taco. Mom got mad at me every time I did this. She said that I would only drop food on myself because I was too far from the table, and I should scoot in more. I always did, but there would still be food on my napkin no matter how close I sat. I still did it, only I’d do it without her seeing me. Looking back now I don’t see why I stopped doing it, it was genius.

            As I grew up, there were less sopa dinners. Less of the family gatherings at the table and more of fast food dinners or really small meals. Less of us kids playing together and more fighting and arguing. I don’t remember much between my elementary years and high school. Dad had to close down the company, the recession hit the housing market too much, and we just couldn’t keep up with the bills and costs of owning a company. Mom went back to work at the school, while trying to earn her degree. Between picking us up, keeping up with the house, work and school, I don’t know how she did it. I think it was more caffeine than actual energy. Grandma got sent to the hospital, her breast and colon cancer had returned from when she was younger. Family dinners were rare after that. Mom and Dad would trade off at the hospital, we started taking the bus home, and I would make sandwiches, egg and bacon, simple things for my younger siblings. They didn’t need to know Mom was too exhausted to cook or why Dad wasn’t home because he was working overtime. They didn’t need to know anything, they just needed some food. Simple dinners were all I knew, I didn’t know how long to let the fajita pieces simmer in a pan or how to make sure the flautas wouldn’t burn in the oven. The meals my mom used to make would take hours, meanwhile four grilled cheese sandwiches cooked within minutes. We strained away from my Mom’s traditional cooking and leaned towards my fast and easy cooking, just a natural change in our circumstances.

            The years continued on and before I realized it I was in high school. I became a part of a wide range of clubs. Daniel and Brenda were in sports, and David was already going to finish middle school. My mom be our chauffer to destinations ranging from practice to games, required volunteer events, and school dances. She was now a teacher and Dad was working. Grandma was okay now, stronger than ever, a survivor. However, things never really went back to the way they used to be.

            Friday nights were now pizza nights. My mom would pick up a one after work, bring it home, and whoever was with her would eat. David was always the one who was there, for pizza was his favorite. Us older ones were always busy, and it was rare that all three of us would be present together. On the off chance we were, my mom would be overjoyed. I would get the glasses and fill them with ice, Brenda would make the sweet tea we all loved and enjoyed, and David would get the paper plates from the cabinet, enough for each of us.

“Mom, did you get the pasta?” Brenda would ask. She always watched what she ate, and figured pasta would give her the energy she needed for games.

“Ugh, Supreme? Did you get another Pepperoni? I hate those vegetables, especially the mushrooms.” Daniel is the pickiest eater I know. I think his idea of a perfect meal would be steak with corn on the side and mashed potatoes. I hated him at dinner for his disgust of flavors and good food.

David and I were the quiet ones. We ate what my mom got with no questions asked. I hated when the other two would question what my mom got, and would complain when it wasn’t what they wanted. Just eat what you’re given and it’s all good.

            After our pizza, we would always have a game to attend. In the fall, it was either Brenda’s volleyball games, Daniel’s football games, or the town’s high school football team, Donna’s Mighty Fighting Redskins, home game. These all lead to the good ole’ concession stand foods. My favorite were the hot Cheetos and cheese, the hotness of the Cheetos would be greater in flavor mixed with the melted cheese. This time it was the football game of the Redskins, so we put on our team shirts and headed for the football stands. Daniel and Brenda didn’t want to sit with us, so they were in the student section with their friends. Since both my parents went to the town’s high school, we have reserved seats every year. Right in front of the fifty yard line, which according to my dad was the best seat in the stadium, was were where we sat every year. Around the end of the second quarter is when I would start to get hungry again, so the quick trip to the concession stand started with asking what everybody wanted.

“Mom, do you want a coke? Dad, what else do you want?” I’d always ask. Being the designated child to go and order our food was my new role, feeling like a waitress getting the order then bringing it back.

“Hmm, get me a pickle with popcorn, Mamas. Your Mom wants a coke with a fajita taco.”

 “Ashley, can I join you?” David would ask.

“Yeah sure, Pupas. You get the drinks and I get the food.”

            The concession stand would always be packed. Three lines at the football games always took forever to move. I never understood how people did not know what they wanted once they got to the front, I mean they were standing in line for ten minutes, one would assume they at least had an idea of what they were craving.

“How may I help you, Ma’am?” the worker asked me. I hated being called Ma’am, it made me feel like my mother.

“I’ll have one hot Cheetos and cheese, one nacho no jalapeño, a pickle and popcorn, and one fajita taco. Also, get me two waters, a coke, and one Sprite.”

Being the oldest, ordering was a job forced upon me. I was a pro at ordering, my other siblings would be too embarrassed to even ask for an extra ketchup at McDonald’s. It was nonsense, but I never argued it. Even if I did, I would be told I’m the oldest, and need to care for my siblings, as if I hadn’t known this information already.

“Here ya go.” the lady said. She placed the food on a tray for me to take, since it was a lot. Her plastic gloved hands pushed the tray while I would lift it.

“Thanks, have a nice night!”

“You too!”

Back at the bleachers, the food and drinks would be distributed, and we’d all sit down and watch the game. The cold metal always gave me the chills, but the warm sensation I’d get from placing the hot Cheetos on my jeans would warm me up slightly. I’d start eating them, careful when bringing the plastic spoon towards my mouth. It only held so many, and even tiniest bump could make one cheeto slip. A handful of napkins were always used to make sure not to ruin our shirts, and no dirty faces were allowed in public. The crisp fall air would brush my face, and would leave me with frizzy hair by the end of the game. The football game would commence, and the crowd would roar, us along with it. It was tradition, our Friday night tradition.

            Looking back now, I see how much we truly have grown and changed. We’re still a family, but such a different one than when I was little. Back then we were happy to be together, now we could barely stand each other. My parents were older and exhausted from raising four kids, each with an attitude of their own. My siblings and I rarely stayed together, much less played or enjoyed each other’s company. It was different, so much that at times I barely recognize that we are indeed the same family. In between my childhood of homemade family dinners and my high school life of football games and fast food, I grew up. I grew into the oldest child with new duties. Starting by getting forks and ending with the designated concession stand waitress, I always had a job, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. I guess it was just something that family did, no matter what.