La Catrachada

Food Memoir.

      The rich smell of coal and burning rubber filled the air. The Marimba played in harmony with the laughter of my cousins that echoed all the way to the antique living room.  I could hear my stomach growling more obstreperous than a lion’s roar, but I couldn’t do anything about it just yet.  We all anxiously awaited the arrival of the Catrachada.  A Catrachada is a medley of foods that are native to, or very popular in Honduras, and they call it a Catrachada because the nickname for Hondurans is Catrachos.  My mouth watered at the thought of the pastelitos, enchiladas, tacos flauta, and baleadas. My uncles shouted words in a Honduran slang that I’m not allowed to repeat.  A busted pickup truck pulled up on the curb, and the aroma of fried goods and beans swirled into my nostrils. We all immediately jumped up and ran outside, it almost seemed rehearsed.  I ran over to the black gates that surrounded my grandmother’s home. She walked over to the gate slower than ever, shuffling her feet as she jingled the keys in her pocket. She examined each key one by one, searching for the one that unlocked the gate. I was so anxious to run out to the food, and she was taking so long, it was frustrating.

      “Here Grandma let me help you,” I said as I took the keys from her. I shoved the key into the lock and popped it open. My cousin Andrea and I ran out into the dirt road that faces the soccer field with the rusty fence. We watched with drool coming out of the corner of our mouths, as a woman with gray and blonde hair started unloading piles of tortillas and tacos out of the back of the Toyota truck.

     “Oh man Maylin, we are so going to have to hit the soccer field after this, oh man I’ve been fasting for 2 days for this, umm…yup 2 days, since Thursday.” Andrea said.

     “I wonder how much food we’re entitled to this year, last year it was two of each. Let’s hope this year it’s three.” I added.

    After the ladies that were catering our food had set up in the corner of the front yard, Andrea and I got in line for our food. This was just a family get together; everyone at that party was related to me by blood. Oddly enough the line stretched around the corner of my house, because there were about 94 people in the line. Like I said, strictly family, and it’s a good thing it was only my mom’s side of the family. I looked around at the front yard. There was only a small square of grass in the middle of the yard, and the rest was all unevenly cemented.

    The table with the food stood in front of an old bath tub that my grandma meant to throw out, but never did. It was mint green but the paint was chipping away. In the other corner of the yard was a small shed that was now my uncle’s bedroom. The fence that separated my grandma’s house and her neighbors’ house had been taken over by vines that wrapped themselves around every wire, until it almost looked like a hedge.

    After what seemed like forever of the line not moving, I was finally in front of the table and was handed my plate by the lady.

     She said, “Espero que le guste.” (I hope you like it), With a smile on her face.

    “Gracias, y no se preocupe, que me encanta!”  (Thank you, and don’t worry, I’ll love it!) I replied.

    I took my plate of sacred deliciousness, and dashed to my grandmother’s room, so I could eat my little slice of heaven alone and in peace. But unfortunately I walked in to find Andrea sitting in the corner already tackling her food. I just ignored her, and locked the door. I sat in the corner behind the bed, out of Andrea view because the way I was about to eat, was definitely not ladylike.

    I stared at my plate and admired it as if it were a Rembrandt painting. A sudden leak frustration and indecisiveness entered my mind when I could not choose what to eat first. Should I eat the taco flauta first? Or the pastelito? What about the Baleada and the enchilada? Before I could lose my mind, I closed my eyes and picked up a random one. I put it in my mouth and I was speechless. There was juice seeping out and I could taste the exotic spices and tomatoes. The steak was soft and juicy, and I could feel the layer of lettuce, salt, and pepper creating a barrier between my tongue and the steak. There goes the enchilada.

   I picked up another and thrust into my longing mouth. My taste buds became confused yet utterly delighted at the taste of the warm flour tortilla that resembled a crab, in the way that it was hard and crunchy on the outside, yet soft and chewy on the inside. The refried beans created a soft texture on the roof of my mouth that hugged the sour cream that was already running down my throat. Goodbye Baleada.

    There were two more goodies on my plate, and I chose to pick up the pastelito. I scooped up the chopped cabbage with tomatoes, lime, and ground red chili peppers ( we call it an encurtido ), and dumped it on top of my pastelito.  I indulged in the deliciousness while in my head I classified the implosion of flavors, the carefully hand seasoned ground beef that emitted juice with everybite, and the little chunks of potatoes that I squished when my tongue flattened them on the roof of my mouth. Three down, one to go.

    I looked at the last thing, the taco flauta. So delicious in it’s art of being a cylinder shaped taco. Trying to be unique in a world where all tacos looked alike. Well it was indeed succeeding. I lifted my last step to victory in completing the Catrachada challenge. I was ready to cram it into my my mouth, my stomach sent my brain a signal that said,

  “Halt! I am full! You shall not proceed with the act of digesting that taco!”

   I wanted to eat the taco so badly, but I just couldn’t take another bite, literally. Ashamed and disappointed at the victory that had just slipped away, I shove my plate away from me, just enough that it peeked out of the corner of the bed. I heard a muffled voice attempt to tell me something but the words were inaudible. I looked out from the corner of the bed, it was Andrea attempting to speak with her mouth full. She swallowed, wiped her mouth, then asked,

   “Umm, Hey are you going to eat that?”

   “Ugh, I wish. But I can’t take anymore, I know, I’m a disgrace to the Honduran race. I’m sorry.” I joked.

   “Don’t you worry, just slide that plate over here and I’ll do the eating and you just say you ate it all. I will sacrifice myself and eat that taco because I love you.” She said.

   I laughed and gave her the plate. She choked it down faster than Adam Richman from Man vs. Food.  I was amazed that such a small creature could eat such a large amount of food. She took a big gulp of soda and said,

   “It’s okay Maylin, you’ll always have next summer.”

I know, how comforting.