The Sizzle

The Sizzle

I can speak for

at least

five generations

of Mexican children,

who know the sizzle,

by heart. 

Whether you were in the corral

playing with sticks in the dirt,

or gathering leña for the next day’s stove,

or sitting in the kitchen in Whittier,

cleaning beans,

or sitting outside on the steps,

with your ghetto-ass friends,

talking shit,

or reclined on the designer sofa,

IPad in hand, playing Roadblocks,

we all knew/know,

the sizzle. 

It means,

that someone who loves us,

even if their version of love,

doesn’t meet our standard of love,

is making us

some kind of

sopita. 

Wherever we are,

as soon as we hear the sizzle,

we know what happened just before,

someone was frying rice or noodles,

and we knew what was happening in that moment,

someone was pouring water over sizzling noodles,

and we knew that now,

the person was adding tomato sauce, chicken bouillon,

maybe some potatoes, perhaps half of an onion,

and they were bringing it to a slow boil,

until the noodles were tender

and our sopita,

was ready to be served,

with warm, corn tortillas. 

Once, when I was in the jungles of Petén, Guatemala,

this Dutch vato says to me,

“So what do Mexicans do to their rice?”

And instantly, I said, “We fry it.”

“Like the Chinese,” he says. 

“No.” I casually answer,

“We fry it, like the last five generations,

of Mexicans have fried it.”