Saturday was when I would see her and the day that she resembled. Her hair was always dyed a burnt orange, frizzy from the disregard she would give it. She had curly hair, but her culture expected her to neglect it, as it was seen as “bad hair.” So, brushing it dry was her solution to denying her hair freedom, and in return, it gave her a crown of weeds. Her ears were long and stretched from her almost daily wear of ornate, chunky earrings. It gave her a certain elf-like quality and added to her mischievous nature.
She would always be watching Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune, screaming “Idiot!” in her thick accent when inevitably a contestant got something wrong. She never quite learned to speak English, but it was enough to survive on. When she would speak to me in English, it was always one word, followed by her long fingers grabbing any body part she could find and squeezing it. It was her way of saying “I love you.”
They used to say that I was the mosaic to her eccentric heart, the way she would burst out into song or the way she wove lies into stories, but I don’t see the resemblance.
She was usually sprawled out on the couch, always shaking her leg, trying to get her mind to focus on anything but the pain. Pain is so consuming that she would look forward to her ritual of pulling out all her pain meds in a disciplined fashion, saying each of their names in perfect English. Each one giving her a different high, her very own blessing from God Himself.
Dinner was always ready by six, and she never strayed from what she would make for us. It would either be Carne Guisada (beef stew) or Pollo Guisado (chicken stew). She’d cook in pots that had seen at least 40 years of chicken and beef, all of them scarred with scratches—a testament to the warmth they’ve given, forever imbued with the flavor of her cooking. She always made too much, but I was always glad to take some home.
But now, I no longer eat there every Saturday. The pots no longer remember the taste. The rooms of her house don’t smell of cumin and oregano. And I can’t describe to you what it tasted like; I’ve forgotten. I can only tell you that I loved it and that it made me feel loved. I wish I had asked her how it was made. I wish I could eat it one last time.
The Junction Journal 
Dear Cat Osorio,
I absolutely loved what you wrote! Honestly, I was tearing up at my second read because it reminded me of how much I missed my mother’s cooking. I think that this piece of writing was a beautiful way to convey loss. A reader themselves can definitely think of someone missing from their life after reading this, whether it’s a loved one who’s passed or just a special someone they haven’t seen in a while. When I read it, I thought of my mom, and my mom’s cooking. A bit of a TMI, but I moved abroad to the United States for college almost a year ago, and I haven’t gotten the chance to visit my family since then. I’ve been feeling especially homesick quite lately, and this piece of writing brought back nostalgia for me. It reminded me of a time last month when I tried to replicate one of my mom’s curry over Facetime with her. It wasn’t coming out right. No matter how hard I tried, it didn’t taste like the curry she used to make at home. Though I believe that your piece is about a more “physical” type of loss, I was able to connect with it on an emotional level, since distance feels like its own kind of loss. My favorite lines were in the last paragraph. I thought the ending was really bittersweet as it perfectly captured the “ache” of remembering something that is no longer in your grasp. The last line, “I wish I had asked her how it was made. I wish I could eat it one last time,” really stuck with me. It made me think about how often we take things for granted, assuming they’ll always be there, until they’re not. I know a lot of people would give anything to be with their loved ones for even just a minute.
Another thing I liked was how you added personality to your piece. I really enjoyed the description of the feminine figure in the story, from her frizzy orange hair to her stretched ears. I also loved how you mentioned how the utensils were “used”, from the scratches to the taste of the pots. I think that noticing the littlest things about someone and the objects that surround them is one of the greatest ways to show love.
Anyways! Thank you so much for writing such a beautiful and heartfelt piece, it made me feel, and it definitely made me miss home in the best way possible!
Best,
Khushi Surve
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Hey Khushi!
It was so mice to meet you IRL! Thank you so much for your words and I loved hearing your story. There is definitely something magical in a matriarch’s cooking!
Love,
Cat
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This was an amazing piece of writing! As a first generation child I can relate to some of these experiences which have to do with the relationship between mother and her child. My mothers cooking can not be compared to anyone else’s, it’s a taste which you’ve had since birth and it sticks to you. From my own personal experience it reminds me of how I want to learn how to cook, not for the sole reason of being a good cook, but wanting to keep in touch with mothers unique and distinct flavor in foods.
A phrase that stood out to me the most was “She’d cook in pots that had seen at least 40 years of chicken and beef, all of them scarred with scratches—a testament to the warmth they’ve given,” I love how you describes the warmth and nostalgic moment by illustrating the use of a pot and the significance to it. The small details in the story creates a powerful tone and makes me more intrigued. What I also really like is the structure of the story, although the reader knows the story is gonna be on food, there’s a build up to it allowing us as the reader really feel like we are in the narrator’s shoes.
Overall I enjoyed reading your story very much!
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I enjoy the writing because it also talks about how she describe the person who was important to her and how they both are connected to each other. I love how you describe the pots and the food that was made which shows how special it was to you. I had to read the writing 3 times because I was confused at first but then I got the message about loss, food, connection, and love.
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