My First Time Trying Pozole

The pristine light of the summer sun smacked me across the face. The massive jackhammer in my head told me we had danced in the Devil's playground again.

"Shit, what the hell happened last night?" my voice raspy as sandpaper, with a hint of Black and Mild on my tongue.

"Sometimes you peer into the abyss.. and it doesn't matter if the abyss looks back, cause you're already blackout drunk."

Always the philosopher. I throw my pillow across the room, aiming at that trademark, indelible grin. Ever so punchable.

I pull myself up into a sitting position, eyeing the room for anything liquid to hydrate my ravished body and get the nasty taste out my mouth. "Man, I've got that feeling like there's something super important that I need to do today."

"Dude, it's a Saturday. The Day of the Lord. Relax a bit." You roll over to get into a comfier sleeping position.

"That's for Sundays, genius."

"Whatever, preacher man. Was gonna take you to my mom's though. She's making pozole later."

"Ah, that's right. You were talking about it last night. The Mexican version of bún bò huế."

"You already know. Shit was fire when we had it at your grandma's. Been wanting to show you since, how Mexicans do."

"Alright, well it's later already." I check my watch, and it says it's damn near noon. "Soup sounds like just the thing to get my stomach right."

We hop in the Infiniti G20, faded red paint showing its double digit age, but could still draw the ire of the cops. On ramp to I-290 and we're cruising, shrinking the tallest building in the Northern Hemisphere in the rearview.

The Beautiful Struggle pumping through the 12 inch subwoofers in the trunk. Cause it's '04, in the year of our Lord, weapons of mass destruction and the start of infinite wars.

Mos Def was featured on the track, and I was absorbing his lyrical barrage like ink. Then something clicked.

"Yo!" I blurt out, hands in the air off the wheel for a second. "The Talib Kweli show is tonight on campus!"

"Oh damn. We don't have much time then.. if we're gonna make it down to the cornfields." America's breadbasket was about 2 and a half hours away.

Off ramp to the West Side and we pull up in front of your mom's 3-flat. Walking in like we own the place, as your mom eyes me up and down sideways. A questionable amount of crucifixes adorn the walls, and I feel right at home.

You conversate with her, bits and pieces I'm able to pick out with my high school level Spanish. A little naggy. Typical mom shit. Typical immigrant shit. Typical can't-keep-us-from-hopping-the-border-so-shut-your-face shit. Same tone of voice my mom uses on me, just for living. We sit down at the dining table.

From the kitchen, your mom comes carrying two heaping bowls of steaming red beef broth. She plops them down in front of us. The smoky and savory aromatics violate my nostrils—in a good way, an asking for consent way. The orgy of onion, garlic, cloves, cumin seeds, bay leaf...mixed with the sadism of ancho, guajillo and de arbel chillies seduces my tastebuds with thirst.

I follow your lead and lace my bowl with the sliced radishes, chopped cilantro, and shredded cabbage. I twist a lime and squirt the juices in a circular motion. "You weren't kidding, this is just like Vietnamese food."

"When have I ever led you astray?" you quip as you tear a piece of fresh fried corn tortilla. "I'm telling you, cultures that cook up rice and meat in banana leaves have the best cuisine."

“Cooking method of the gods.” Obviously referring to tamales and bánh chưng here.

I scoop up a spoonful, cool it down with my breath before tasting it. It hits like a 10 megaton flavor bomb. The hominy gives the broth a nice mouth feel. And the veggies provide the excellent balance of yin to the yang of the fiery chillies.

I dip a piece of tortilla into my bowl and scoop up some of the beef. It's been slow-cooked to perfection and melts in my mouth like butter. I shake my head, incredulous. "This hits the spot right now."

I instantly feel better, as the pozole relinqushes my body from the hangover.

Your mom starts yelling at you from the kitchen, sticking her head out and gesticulating with a spatula as she flips tortillas in a cast iron.

“My mom found my spray can collection,” you say in between spoonfuls. “Says she’s burning her money paying for me to go to art school. When I’m wasting my time with spray paint.” Your eyes roll so hard they might as well be in the next time zone.

I chuckle. “Remember that time we were testing those spray tips and ACAB almost busted us?”

“Yeah! And we dropped the cans under the car and pretended to relieve ourselves by the wall?”

I clear my throat, and imitate the voice of 5-0, “How would you feel if this was your wall?”

Then in unison, “Better than if it were spray paint!” We both bust out in uncontrollable cackling.

Your mom comes in to see what all the commotion is about. She talks to me like I’m fluent, but I’m able to comprehend what I sum up as, “Why do you hang out with this asshole? You must be just as crazy, to do so on your own accord.”

She slaps you upside the head for good measure. In fine form, she would've made Will Smith proud. Her turn to cackle, as she flashes the same indelible trademark grin.

"Bruh, your mom is wild."

. . .

It was one of the few times I've seen your mom. But it was certainly the most memorable. Especially now that she's passed on during the pandemic.

I hate that I couldn't be there for her funeral. Little human responsibilities. Spousal responsibilities. Covid protocol. Pandemic fatigue. An eggshell away from the family going ballistic. Shit was fucked up. It's still fucked up. But it puts a smile on my face whenever I think about her and my first time trying pozole.

May the simulation bless her beautiful soul, up there hooking up flawless meals and wilding out in the cosmos.