Leche con Chocolate

Virgin milk in a tall glass that shudders at the cold it holds, a child's chin on the edge of the kitchen countertop, admiring the pour. Then the long, elegant stream of dark, how obscured by the thick whiteness until, like magic, a full-bodied spoon is dunked in the glass and after a couple of pirouettes, the thick darkness unveiled. Mi leche con chocolate. Even the glass tears up at how pretty all this is.

A calculation: my childhood veins carried about 30% blood, 70% chocolate milk. It is impossible to remember a morning without it. What impresses me most about the memories is how grateful the small me is for each and every glass. More mornings than it is possible for my head to hold were spent with my chin on that countertop waiting for the dark magic. When I think of how many meals in adulthood have become obligatory, the chewing and swallowing like a drone punching in and out of work, I myself feel dark and lonely, and I mourn the death of eating ecstasy.

It can still be found in desserts that friends are munificent enough to make: chocolate-cashew tortes, honey pies, doughy cake balls dipped in white chocolate. Luckily for me I indulge in these only at parties, which is not often, as a runner cannot go far with a bellyful of cake balls, delicious as they are. But when I do allow myself these desserts, my ever-loving lord: again the sensation that shuddering must accompany eating, that maybe here inside the stickiness can be found some purpose in our lives, an unveiling of a larger scheme.

Willy Wonka's ideology within a hymnal? God inside of chocolate? Though my people (and by my people, I mean Lala) are adept at hyperbole, I'm not sure about all that. Really I'm saying that as an adult, I'm most conscious of what I eat when it's sugary, because it's so damned good and I know exactly how damned bad it is for me. During the moments I'm eating it, though, I say goodbye to all that and am transported, madeleine-style, back to the smaller body with its chin on the kitchen countertop. Sometimes it feels good not to feel oneself.

I think on this because I couldn't remember the last time I drank a glass of milk, but then I woke up this morning to find a miniscule white pool at the bottom of the glass on my nightstand. My first thought was, Who left this empty glass of milk here? It took a few long opening minutes of consciousness to recognize it was indeed my glass, and I'd drunk the milk. Still I'm trying to remember the taste but can't--I slept through the every sumptuous gulp.

Two things sadden me regarding food: that it's a nearly ubiquitous issue for women, and that what I do remember of food during my childhood, that gorgeous pre-issue period, doesn't extend much further than those mornings of chocolate milk. When we met, Brock had the idea that every meal Lala cooked for me was exotic because, well, we're brown. Don't your people make great food? Aren't overseas, possibly black market spices involved? Is there some form of incantation?

What follows is the sad reality of everything I remember eating before I was responsible for putting food together for myself:*

• leche con chocolate
• taquitos
• arroz con huevo frito
• cereal--either Lucky Charms or Cocoa Puffs or Cheerios
• arroz con pollo
• papas fritas
• platanos con carne asada

Now that I look on the list, it seems that without meaning to I've produced one of those Highlights Magazine's "what's-the-odd-thing-in-this-picture" scenes. One thing I can guarantee with nearly 100% assurance is that if I was eating at home, and I was younger than ten, these were one of seven meals I'd be eating.

Last night at our solitary Thanksgiving dinner, Brock ate two plates to my half-plate, which is as it should be--he's a big strong man, and I'm trying every day to become a better runner. Again and again he dipped into the broccoli and cheese casserole, the brussel sprouts and mushrooms, the upside-down turkey, the cranberry, the mounds of mashed potatoes with their caves of gravy. At one point he reminisced that when he was a boy, all he ever wanted was to be able to eat more than he could, but he was so skinny it was impossible. Now as a man, he has to force himself to stop eating, and often fails. Then he asked if I was going to finish the errant crescent roll and sweet potatoes on my plate. I pushed them over.

Here I realized something else I miss about eating while young: Lala's complete devotion to every bite I ever took. It often drives my mom crazy because Lala still does this, stares at us while we eat, and says, Que gusto que me da, viendote comer. Mom gets no joy at those big eyes of Lala's obsessed with each moment of mastication. But my secret is, I kinda love it. Lala sort of makes you feel proud for being able to eat heartily, which has always been a discounted skill of mine. She reads your look, knows your love for what's slow in becoming part of you, and she compounds that joy you may feel guilty for. Her look says, you know what? Fuck that guilt. Look at you, you are eating and happy and so good at what you're doing, which is understanding what it is to enjoy yourself fully. That is a skill, and you, mijita, are a master.

It is weird, though, when she waits until I've got a mouthful of food to tell me how beautiful my body is. That ruins things a little bit, transporting me to my next five-mile run. How in the world, I think, am I ever going to work this off?

Running: a thing almost entirely absent from my childhood. There was no place in the world I needed to get to quickly. Everything I could think to need and want always sat before me. Now I'm always running, still unsure of exactly where I'm going.

Glossary*: I've recognized that some of these terms might have to be interpreted, and I thought it might be useful to have the food of my youth defined fully for myself and others. This should also serve as a reminder of what not to eat, although eating it can be so good.

leche con chocolate--chocolate milk, best concocted using 2%, only acceptable in tall adult glass
taquitos--more like taquotes (that's a big taco, to you and me), these large flour tortillas are fried lightly in butter then filled with about half a block of mozzarella cheese, the two sides of the tortilla then folded over like arms in a hug, and then gorged upon
arroz con huevo frito--a generous bed of rice with two fried eggs on the top, lots of butter, salt, and pepper to top it off
arroz con pollo--same bed of rice, but spicy chicken on top, probably the most healthy among these meals
papas fritas--friend potatoes, or french fries, which require no explanation
platanos con carne asada--plantains (those hard green bananas on steriods that one can never find at Winn Dixie) chopped into medallions and fried in butter alongside a healthy cut of steak with spicy spices

I almost forgot: Que gusto que me da, viendote comer. What pleasure it brings me watching you eat. Watching others eat makes her happiest these days, and all the days I remember of her. If Lala could crawl inside our mouths or hearts and curl up there for awhile, she would. What we are is what her dreams are made of.