Pupusas By Jonathan Villanueva

The crashing of dishes and the sound of boiling water woke me up. I knew my mother was planning on making something the day before our flight back to the US. I headed out of the room and felt the intense wave of heat envelop my body. The sun's rays filled the entire house, something so impossible to explain, a feeling that brought a wave of happiness. My cousin greeted me and jumped onto a hammock. I headed to the kitchen and heard my mom chopping the tomato and placing it into the blender and began grabbing the other ingredients. She grabbed a small batch of tomatoes, onions, garlic, chicken flavor seasoning, and water. My mom poured the beautiful running tomato sauce into the pot and let it simmer. The smell of the sauce was serene as it filled the entire home with its mouth-watering aroma. 

The sound of the local vegetable sellers announcing the foods through a loudspeaker filled the neighborhood. My mother sprinted outside with her flip-flops heading toward the gate. I watched from afar my mother buying cabbage, carrots, and onions. Carrying them back with a bag she gave them to my Tia who then asked me and my cousin to slice the vegetables and put them in the bowl. My Tia cut the carrots, onion, and cabbage and poured the boiling water into the bowl filled with the vegetables. She let it sit for five minutes and then placed vinegar and water. I added the last part to make the curtido perfect, salt. The small bag crinkled and the salt stuck to my hand and it slowly grazed the curtido. My cousin carried me outside where he dumped a massive bucket of water on me, completely soaking me. The house echoed with the sound of laughter as both of us attacked each other with water guns.   

I noticed my Tia carrying a large bucket of flour while carrying a small basket of pork. She placed down the pork and asked me to blend it. I bunched up the pork and began mixing the pork and placing it into a bowl: place tomatoes, onions, cumino, and water into the blender. Put the mixture into the bowl and add mozzarella while mixing. My Tia grabbed the flour and poured it into a bowl and looked at me with a bright smile. Seeing me cook was something not typical for boys my age to be doing. She then asked me “want to make the Maseca for me?”. I poured the flour into a bowl and added water until it had a nice dough consistency. The look on both our faces was priceless. Something I have never experienced before. My Tia, someone I haven’t seen in years I had finally met and grown a connection to. I heard my mother coming to the corridor of the house. “¿Ya estan listos?” my mother shouted. I ran inside with the bucket as I watched my mother and my Tia begin to make the Pupusas. The sound of the dough being clamped together and the sizzling as it was gently placed on the griddle. My mother carefully with her gentle hands formed the dough into a tortilla-like shape and placed a good amount of pork in the middle. She then grabbed the dough and shaped it into a ball and with her hands flattened it into a circular shape. Place on the grill and cook until both sides are golden. I was handed a dish of curtido, tomato sauce, and a pupusas that I began eating. The flavor was something that even words couldn’t describe. 

 In El Salvador, I had no distractions, and no stress, and lived carefree while spending time with my family. Moments where I can lay on the hammock and swing until the end of time. Watching the sunshine glow through the barred windows and the local sellers yelling at the gate. “Buenas! ¿Quieren unos plátanos?”. The US can’t offer me pupusas made with love and togetherness like the ones back home and the tranquil feeling of swinging on the hammock. Seeing my mom reunited with my Tia brought a sense of unity. Maybe one day I will be back home eating a pupusas with my family once again while laying on my hammock and having conversations with my cousin till the sunset was no longer visible.