The taste of my mother’s Spanish Rice and my grandmother’s Hungarian poppyseed bread manage every time to transport me back to the holiday parties we had when I was young. Aunts, uncles, and cousins, the sound of Latin music on the record player, people dancing, and intense conversations in Spanish and English being carried on at a lightning pace.
In the corner sits the Christmas Tree covered in ornaments and tinsel. In the dining room, the dog and cat plot nefariously the best way to bring down the large cake my godmother had brought. They’d share the proceeds and be happy despite the punishment.
These scenes were repeated so often that there was no need to worry that they’d ever cease until, of course, they did.
So now, during the holiday season, I’m the one cooking, telling my adult children the stories, and occasionally driving late at night with tears in my eyes when a Latin song comes on the radio that reminds me of those parties.