Unpacking

Daily writing experience - day 29

Unpacking

I used to be terrified of going into the dark pantry/hallway where my maternal grandmother kept all her ingredients, wares, and implements.  It loomed large when the door was halfway open when I walked by.  

It's where goodies were stored if I chose to follow my older cousins' examples.  They'd make sure no one was around, open the door quietly, go inside and come back out eating one of the many goodies inside.

Looking back, the pantry wasn't large at all and mama Amalia knew what was going on.  She was generous, and would give us treats when we arrived to visit, and when we asked.  She was also always willing to help anyone in need.  

The long wood planks where she'd lay the bread to rise were stacked in there, as well as the long wood bread troughs / artesas stood in a corner giving the pantry it's unique smell.

Once a week, she'd make bread, cakes and merengues all day to prepare for the Saturday market.  She'd make the hot drinks very early on Saturday morning.  I don't know how all this got to the market.  I was always asleep then.

I loved being at her place on baking day. She'd let me help.  I'd be given my own dough to shape with my own hands into the flower looking bread.  It required pinching the edges, folding the pinch as you turned the bread in your hand.  Once the edge was done, you'd turn it upside down to get some sugar on the top before putting it into the metal rectangles that'd be slid inside the large earthen oven to bake.

I could never get my breads to look like hers.  They were small, misshapen and lopsided.  And she always gave them to me once they were baked so I could eat them.

Once the different types of bread were baked, it was packed in large baskets which she sold from in her small town's marketplace.  The unsold bread would be stored in the pantry, sold during the rest of the week, and the family would eat it.

I wish I'd spent more time with her.  Our visits were infrequent, generally once a year for a week.  Except when we returned from the US in September 1988.  I spent the last month of the Guatemalan school year in her home, attending the local public school.   

I never thought to question why our parents took us there, and left us for a month or two.  I just remember the many surprises of doing life for a little while in Nenton, a small town of 40,000 people now according to Wikipedia.  Back then there must have been a lot less people.

Are there any surprises that stand out from your life?