By Maria Ortiz

“With masa en la mano and the clapping sound resonating throughout the house, I know that the gorditas are on their way.
Like a rod striking a silver triangle announcing dinner time, the music my mom makes with dough and her hands beckons us to the kitchen before it’s even ready.
The spicy smell of pikadillo and chorizo dances around the house tempting our tongues and poking at our stomachs.
With utter impatience, we wait in the crowded kitchen for the first gordita to hit the plate. Once it’s there, it’s gone. And finally, the relief hits us all as w satisfy our senses while feeding our souls in the kitchen.
A tradition set by my father, when gorditas are for dinner, we feast in the kitchen. We shove kid sized chairs and tables inside and eat in there simply because the wait is never short enough.
One after another, they’re gone. No more pikadillo to fill them up with, no more cheese to give them shape, no more chorizo to fatten them up, no more salsa to give them life and no more masa to hold the filling hostage. But until there is nothing left, we are satisfied. We rejoice for the blissful dinner with a freezing cold pepsi and smiles. Little do we notice that for every soft squishy pocket of Mexican ambrosia that we eat, we’re becoming gorditas ourselves.”

– By Maria Ortiz

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