I remember how my mom use to cook delicious food in our small kitchen.
I remember how it always use to be sunny on the days she made my favorite food.
She took her time mixing ingredients, which I would never know what they were.
I asked many times, but she just smiled and said “I made with love and that’s all that matters”.
I remember seeing the birds fly high in the sky; I remember hearing the dogs bark.
They use to bark at the kids trying to face their fear and show off.
I use to try to learn how to make this tasty food, but I never could.
The TV always won the battle and then I had lost my thoughts on learning.
The food that I fell in love with was spaghetti.
Eating it slowly, trying to enjoy slithering in my throat, and making that kiss sound at the end.
With my handy fork and with the Spanish sauce I was more than satisfied.
It was like a candy given to a child right after their first shot in the doctor’s office.
It made me feel like I was fighting a war but at peace at the same time.
I felt like a bird on his first day of voyage in the air.
Spaghetti such a showy significant food, in this big city in Elizabeth I felt I was their guest of honor and was treated like their King.
In a time of yelling of adults and crying of babies,
I didn’t hear anything; it was just me and my favorite food.