So as to not lost interest in this writing project, here’s more! Other stuff to come soon!
In my case, they figured any chance to return ‘home’ was better than living with my adopted parents, who obviously knew nothing of my heritage and how to conform to my needs and a young Hispanic man. Granted, my parents shied away from anything remotely resembling a pepper and all around avoided any seasoning that had even a slight hint of red to it, but I barely knew better myself. After all, I grew up eating Taco Bell because of my parents’ afore mentioned lack of taste buds. I did try various things that were a mixed bag of flavors and textures that were foreign to me.
I visited several classmates’ houses over the course of my childhood. I remember being invited in ardently by parents who immediately bombarded me with fast tongued Spanish, returning a blank look to them. My friends would eventually rush over and whisper something to their parent, probably explaining that I didn’t in fact speak Spanish. I didn’t even really have an accent either. Their parents would always blink at me a couple of times, and then totally switch gears.
Dinner at houses like these always had me guessing at what would be served. Like I said, a mixed bag. Who knew there were so many parts of a cow that could be eaten? Not to mention some of these hardly resembled meat, and if they did they resembled no cuts I had ever seen. Let’s not even go into the names I may or may not have been able to pronounce. I remember coming back home, sometimes still hungry, and trying to describe what I had eaten to my parents. “Is that supposed to be food?” they would say. Sometimes, I didn’t know myself