Two Flags, One Home
Publisher's Note
Today marks the start of National Hispanic Heritage Month, and with it, a new SVL series. We asked our Advisory Board, our guest writers, and our own team one question: what does "home" mean to you?
We open the series with an essay by Eddie García, and it is a gift. A Sunday morning kitchen. A molcajete retired to a place of honor. A father who asked "are you mad at me?" with tears in his eyes from salsa that was too good to put down. It's the kind of memory that makes you homesick for a place you've never been.
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It was any given Sunday. The unmistakable smell coming from the kitchen woke me up – chorizo and eggs, papas, and homemade flour tortillas. I wondered if I had died and gone to heaven. Rubbing my blurry eyes cleared up my vision. Nope. I wasn't dead. I was only 11 or 12, way too young for the graveyard. I was definitely in my bedroom at 48 Viewmont Avenue on the east side. Two single beds and a dresser dominated the space. A large Mexican flag hung on one wall, and a larger American flag graced another. On the remaining wall space, thumbtacks held up posters of Hank Aaron’s historic 715th home run, Pele’s famous bicycle kick, and a San Francisco Giants pennant.
The cramped kitchen had just enough room for a refrigerator, a round table with a restaurant booth wrapped around one side, and a couple of chairs. On the narrow countertop squeezed between the fridge and the stove sat a coffee can of thickened grease from the previous meal, and a small radio tuned to KOFY 1050 AM – Radio Español. Sunday-morning sounds mingled with the scrumptious aroma coming from the kitchen. Chorizo and eggs sizzled in one cast-iron pan as the papas simmered in another. The music coming from the radio sounded like mariachis. I couldn't make out the tune, but I heard the melodic thumping of a guitarrón and the bright, brassy sound of trumpets, followed by the deep voice of a male disc jockey talking at warp speed, most likely introducing the next song or pitching sponsored products.
On the counter space at the other side of the stove sat a bread box and a blender. There was a little room to lay down a trapo (dish rag) to stack freshly made tortillas straight from the round cast iron comal (griddle). My mouth watered with anticipation as I ran to the kitchen for a piping-hot tortilla with melted butter. Next to the blender was a retired molcajete (mortar and pestle). Mom used to make salsa in that molcajete, pressing the pestle into serrano chiles, onions, tomatoes, garlic, and cilantro. When the blender arrived in the late 1970s, the molcajete stayed to take a place of honor on the counter. I’ll never forget Mom’s beaming smile when she made salsa for the first time in the blender. It seemed like a historic moment on 48 Viewmont.
By the time I was in the kitchen, gleefully savoring my tortilla-and-butter breakfast appetizer, Dad had been sitting in his spot at the end of the booth, sipping his third or fourth cup of coffee. He was already dressed for the day, wearing a button-down long-sleeved shirt, slacks, and dress shoes. He dressed like that even if he had no particular place to go in the morning. Mom put the finishing touches on breakfast, usually by warming the salsa in a small pot. Microwave ovens had not yet reached 48 Viewmont Avenue. Dad sat waiting to be served with a tortilla already in hand and a trapo at the side of the plate. God forbid if Mom gave him a paper napkin. She served healthy portions of papas and chorizo scrambled with eggs, and cold milk for me, Stevie, and our little sister, Sisi (her birth name is Maria Elena, but that is a story in and of itself).
Dad’s breakfast was always a special order. He liked his eggs sunny-side-up with a portion of fried chorizo and papas on the side. Mom walked over to his spot with the sizzling salsa still in the little pot, then poured the spicy sauce over Dad’s sunny-side-up eggs and papas. I tried Mom’s salsa once, just a tiny bit of juice without seeds at the tip of my tongue. It was ridiculously and unbearably spicy. I am positive I lost quite a few taste buds from that experience.
Dad loved when Mom made outrageously hot salsa. He sat hunched over his plate, beads of sweat forming on his bald forehead. His eyes watered as if he had been crying for days. Tamping down his forehead with the trapo, he would look up at Mom with a mischievous chuckle and jokingly ask her, “Are you mad at me?” He followed up with, “Man, this salsa is GOOD!” Stevie would take a couple of teaspoons; Sisi never got an offer of salsa, and I always declined. My inner voice said that the spicy sauce that almost made Dad go into convulsions had no business landing on my plate. I loved my taste buds just the way they were.
I eventually grew up and got an education, started a family, built a career, and moved to a “nicer” neighborhood. No matter where I may be, “home” will always be family, Mexican music, and the aroma of fresh tortillas and comfort food. As xenophobic scaremongers once again place blame for their woes on our community, we are comforted that home will be our safe harbor. Our community is resilient. We have faith. We have hope. We are home. Somos Americanos. We are Americans. We always have been.
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Publisher
Co-Founder, COO & Publisher of Silicon Valley Latino, covering Latino business and culture across the Bay Area and beyond since 2011.