Tita's Kitchen

Words by Talia Glazer

Illustration by Ava Monroe

My tias crowded the small table with enthusiastic gestures, throwing their hands in a passionate dance; these women always wore every feeling on their sleeves. Speaking over each other, the kitchen was a cacophony of Spanish, words jumbling together and falling on my small ears into a song of jazz indistinguishable, for the grown ups. I was just below eyeline, wandering around the comfortable chaos, occasionally tugging on my mom’s sleeve.

Their manner of speaking wasn’t different on this day, but the language was. When their mom was in town, they switched, so easily, like tuning into a different radio station. Their interjections perhaps took on a different tune. “Ayyy mama!” filling gaps.

Stumbling around on clumsy legs, I tripped into the kitchen and found myself faced with

a bowl whose contents were glimmering red, splotches of orange oil creating a galaxy amidst streaks of noodles. The steam carried the smell of garlic and rich tomato into my little nose. The wrinkly hand holding the bowl pressed it further toward me in insistence. I looked up to see the soft, wrinkly smile of my Tita. She said something in Spanish; the only word familiar to me was “mija.” Kind eyes boring into my too-big, curious ones offered just as much warmth as the soup she presented me with. Taking the bowl in my hands, I followed her as she shooed away somebody at the table, pulled up a chair for me, and sat me down. Without missing a beat, she was back to the stove, pots clanking, oil sizzling, that thick garlic air filling the space. She glanced back, smiling, watching me dig in.

When she was around, she was always in front of the stove; no matter the time of day, something was cooking. On tippy toes, I was back by her side, glancing at the silver pots over the fire. “¡Cuidado, Mija!” It was mesmerizing, watching her cast her spells and brew her potions in a series of reflexes, not a moment of contemplation needed. She continued to speak to me in this language I didn’t know. The tone was doting, gentle. This unknown language was different when she spoke it to me. It wasn’t the jazz I was used to. It was a lullaby. I’d stare up at her silently, too shy and awkward to navigate a language gap at my small age. I let her words of adoration pass. She never let any disappointment show; she never changed her tone.

By all accounts, she was not a gentle woman. She was tough. She could be cruel. She never hid her expectations of her daughters. But to me she was kind; she expected nothing and insisted on keeping my belly full. A shy “gracias” was enough for her. For years it was this way.

The most communication we had was that gaze. Aging eyes staring into my own, her history informing my future, my life was written by this woman in so many ways, in a language I couldn’t understand.

She passed without us ever having a meaningful conversation, but there was never any doubt of that complete adoration. The awkward, gangly little girl in the kitchen would never go hungry, and though no thanks ever felt sufficient, it was a given that none was ever needed.