The Sacrament of the Beans
Under my grandma’s collection
of salt-and-pepper shakers
I watch the ritual washing
of the pinto beans.
She sorts them like she’s reading
a map of the future.
Her fingers move like dragonflies
picking the pebbles out
and brushing the rest into the pot.
Pours out more and they clatter
onto the counter. Spins them
around the copper pot in the sink,
looks into the vortex,
and says, “You must always remove the bits of dirt and rock.”
I watch tortillas bubble,
smell garlic from the granite molcajete,
and think I understand,
but when I become a woman,
I break a tooth
biting into something soft
that turned out
to be made of stone.
Thank you to Monterey Poetry Review for publishing my poem in your current issue!
Wrapped in Red Chile
The home air is warm with red chile’s embrace,
A spicy aroma, a comforting space.
She dips tortillas, a rhythmic art,
Filling the kitchen, filling my heart.
Potatoes diced, rolled in tortillas tight,
A feast wrapped up, a family delight.
Sour cream swirls, cheese softly falls and lands,
Lettuce crowns, and a plate of love.
Home on a plate, a masterpiece made,
In those small moments, memories stayed.
Each bite is a memory, rich and deep,
Of love and care, I’ll always keep.
On cold winter nights, we would sit side by side,
With ice cream that melted, a sweet, silent guide.
Mom’s voice was soft, but her mind far away,
Debating the words she couldn’t yet say.
We’d sit in the car, by the beach’s dark shore,
Watching the waves crash, while her heart wanted more.
She’d ask me, in whispers, how I would feel,
If the love that was once there with my father no longer felt real.
The chocolate would swirl, the vanilla would melt,
In that quiet moment, emotions we both felt.
Her hands shook a bit as she scooped out the cream,
And I wondered if this was the end of our dream.
But in that small car, with the ocean so near,
We shared an unspoken, unbroken fear.
No answers were given, no decisions were made,
But for a moment, the cold world seemed to fade.
Before Thanksgiving, the culinary class is bustling with stress
from high schoolers grabbing items, trying not to make a mess
But everything is okay when we form and bake the doughs
for our lovely and tasty cinnamon rolls.
Out of the oven, the sweet smell of the rolls warms my anxious head
Next time I’ll be calm and trust the process instead
Warm cinnamon swirls in the air,
Sugar dusts the counter, everywhere.
Laughter echoes as dough takes shape,
Golden cookies, a sweet escape.
Each bite melts, a memory bright,
Snickerdoodle’s shared with friends on a cozy night.
Short Story
As a child, I had Sonic-shaped ice cream at the park, but it melted. My mom yelled, “LEVANTA LA CARA!” I didn’t understand what she meant, so I tried picking up the ice cream, and she shouted, ‘NO ESA NO!'”
Warmth in Every Bite
The aroma of posole fills the room,
Steaming bowls chase away the gloom.
A dash of lime, a sprinkle of spice,
Every bite feels warm and nice.
Shared with laughter, stories unfold,
A tradition worth more than gold.
Christmas Tradition
on a cold winter Christmas morning we all gather by the
tree with a warm glass of hot chocolate while we open
presents and we spend quality time with family
Cinnamon Buns and Friendship
Side by side, we’d knead and roll,
laughing as sugar and cinnamon took their toll.
Hands sticky, hearts light,
the kitchen full of warmth and delight.
Now I return, but you’re not here—
only the scent, and memories, near.
– Amal
Christmas tradition
Each year we gather, hands in dough,
Making pies, with love they glow.
A family recipe, passed down with care,
At the table, tradition fills the air.
The Simple Joy of Tacos
My sister and I about to eat,
Warm soft tortillas await,
Flavorful chicken, lime squeezed tight,
Red salsa, tasty and spicy,
We take a bite, and all feels right,
Nothing beats tacos, year after year.