Las Tortillas

Crickets and sunsets chaperone my journeys home after long days.

Welcomed with an aromatic bouquet of flour, fat and water burning on a hot griddle.

Subtle distinctions permeates the air.

Simplistic aromas cut through the spiciest of foods.

Flavors of nostalgia hit deeper than any jalapeño could.

Briskly beautiful beads accompany her brow, as her face shows her efforts.

Kitchen rewards for duties fulfilled.

Peripheral smiles disclose her beautiful dimples I inherited; she knows her boy is home.

All worries vanished. Only concern is how many tortillas I am going to eat before dinner.

Velvety butter caress the warmth of my mother’s talent; dripping from the end of a rolled up delicacy.

Towels saturated with utter goodness; useless to wipe my face.

Although a simple recipe, I can taste the complexities of her efforts.

Subtle tones of love and hints of her soul make every bite a satisfying memory.

Nostalgic flavors tickle memory’s taste buds.

Delicious the stories of days once more.

When she was a child, and all the others before.

Savoring the craft and effort handed down generations.

History.

Culture.

Family.

It reminds me of how much she loves me, even when yelling, "stop eating all the darn tortillas."