As I walk up those chipped, wooden steps,
The smell of authenticity fills my nostrils.
Salivation onsets, like a tidal wave.
My stomach groans, as if possessed.
I enter their Kingdom, nestled humbly atop Apartment A.
The Queen, front and center of stove,
As her loyal princesses scurry like mice
Trying to help fellow colony members.
But true tradition doesn't need help;
What's necessary is the amount of time required
To perform such tasty feats of grandeur.
So, like every meal before,
Grandma has squeezed dry the fruit of tradition.
My dish, staring me down as I await
My fellow colony members to be seated.
As if it were both my first and last meal in the world,
I quickly begin to fill the caverns of my stomach.
With an abundance of tortillas and menudo,
There's no time in between bites to acknowledge
The cousins sitting at both of my shoulders.
Our roots run deep; still waters have nothing.