In light of the recent tragedy in my state

In memory of all those who lost their lives.

Tomato Sauce

Here is a Literary Memoir piece (a sub-genre from the Creative Non-Fiction bag of goodies). Read on for childhood memories of my dad trying to (emphasis on trying) to whip up a meal while mom's away...

Tomato Sauce

            Whenever the aroma of my mom’s cooking filled our house, I knew I was in for a treat. She would cook meals weekly to make us have a family dinner at the table. My dad could cook too (sometimes) but there’s something special about the way a mother prepares a meal for her family. Maybe it’s because my mom puts the same love in her food that she has when she’s taking care of us. It’s the same way a mother bird feeds her new babies or the way a mother bear protects her cubs. There’s really nothing like a mom’s love for her children.

“When you grow up, be sure to find a wife who can cook.” Mom would say, as she was cooking. “Not one of those lazy girls who can only cook ramen noodles.”

“Okay, Mommy.” I would say obediently. I was ten years old at the time, not even thinking about girls.

“Here you go, hon.” She’d say, handing me a plate of one of the recipes taught to her by her own mother, my grandmother from Guatemala.

“Yum! Thanks, Mommy.” I would say, and she would kiss my forehead.

My mom has always repeated the comment about finding a girl who can cook. It sounds old-fashioned, but good cooking is seen as a good quality in a girl. That being said, my mom didn’t believe that a woman’s place was only in the kitchen either. She’s never believed that a woman couldn’t work. My parents would take turns working, so as to not leave my brother and me at home alone when we were kids. Even when she was gone she usually left something to eat, whether it was green chile enchiladas, large quesadillas bubbling with melted cheese, or just plain black beans (and if there wasn’t any food, then there was money left for Pizza Hut).

One morning when my mom had gone to work,

my dad was fumbling around in the tidy kitchen, wondering what to make for lunch.

During this time, I had developed a large craving

for anything pasta, and my mom, always paying

attention to detail had left cooked pasta shells,

ready for dad to just cook the tomato sauce

and pour it on top.                                                                                                                                                                             

“Mom left pasta.” I told dad, pointing to a silver pot on the stove. He picked up an unopened can of Del Monte tomato sauce sitting on the white counter.

            “Oh, so I just have to put the sauce on it.” He said, more to himself than anyone else.

            “Yep!” I said, eager for the upcoming pasta.

            Dad opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a green can opener. He opened the top of the can and reminded me that the lid was very sharp and dangerous.

            “Always grab it like this.” He said, holding the now-detached can lid with his thumb and index finger in the center of it.

            I nodded but all I could think about was how the pasta was almost ready. I imagined that heaven must be made of pasta with some rooms made out of pepperoni pizza. I pulled a black chair out at the sparkling-clean table and sat down in anticipation. My dad held the open can in his hand and looked around, confused. After a few seconds of silence, he smiled at me and then poured the can of sauce onto the pasta. I could hear the squirt and plop of the red chunks as they left the can and landed on the shells. Dad grabbed a wooden spoon from a white container filled with other kitchen utensils and stirred the pot. Then he pulled out a few white plates from a beige cabinet and poured some pasta on each of them.

            “Here.” Dad said, handing me one of the plates.

            I looked at my plate-full with glee, although I did notice something looked different about the sauce and pasta shells (the sauce just looked so boring and lifeless, like it needed help hanging on to the shells and the color wasn’t as dark), but I was too hungry to care. I stabbed several shells with my fork and opened my mouth to receive the food of the gods. I chomped down with delight, but then I stopped in mid-chew because something tasted mushy and icy. I grabbed more bites, but it just didn’t taste the same because the sauce was cold, and it wasn’t all over the shells like usual. I wasn’t enjoying this nearly as much as I hoped I would.

            “Dad, this tastes weird.” 

            “What do you mean?” He looked down at his plate.

            “It tastes cold…and gross.”

            “What?”

            He took a few bites off his own plate and realized what I was talking about. It was the tomato sauce; I remembered how he had just poured it mercilessly onto the unsuspecting pasta shells. I guess mom always cooked it and added her own ingredients before pouring it on. I put my plate in the microwave, hoping to salvage what I could. The black microwave hummed and lit up.

             “Oops, I guess I had to cook the sauce before I used it.” He said, still chewing a few of the shells.

            “I guess so.”

            The ding of the microwave announced it had done what it could with a tampered dish. I took my plate out and continued digging in, but it was of no use because it just didn’t taste the same. Now it tasted like thawed mushy sauce and some of it had completely dried onto the shells. I was so excited about this pasta and now it was just ruined. I went to the fridge to get some orange juice and that’s when I saw my mom’s note on the fridge. It stood in the middle of the freezer door like a buoy in the sea, hoping to be seen in time.

“Don’t forget to cook the tomato sauce before you use it.” She had written in red sharpie. I pointed it out to my dad.

“Hmm.” He said. “Well, now I know what to do for next time.”

“Oh Dad.” I said, shaking my head. I could picture my mom shaking her head in the same way when she would arrive after work to see what had happened.

“Sorry!” He said, and chuckled.

We abandoned the pasta and ate microwave chimichangas instead.

The Obligatory Introductory Post...

Hello there! My name is Hector and this is my blog for creative non-fiction. I'm sure some of my entries will simply be musings on daily life but part of the objective with my creative non-fiction pieces is to capture some of those musings and implement my voice and writing style to create something that's pretty freaking awesome. :)

I'm also in the process of creating another blog for my love of horror movies. I watch new horror movies on a weekly basis and I'm dedicating said blog to reviewing and discussing these films. I'm a big horror film fan (horrorista, horror whore, horror hound, whatever you want to call it) and I think exploring the genre in depth will not only help my writing but also my analysis of films, my writing habit, and it'll be fun! Not to mention I'd like to show how there are devout Christians out there (Yay Jesus!) who also love the thrills and chills of horror cinema.

Until next time!

-Hector