A strange Sunday
Soup was the Sunday meal, and Grandma was in charge of peeling the vegetables, chopping the meat, and seasoning the water boiling on the stove. We walked back and forth around the house, in our pajamas, yawning, doing Monday schoolwork, unable to go near the kitchen:
"Don't go near the kitchen," the adults would shout from every corner of the house. Ever since my younger sister had dropped a pot of boiling water on her, that area of the house was off-limits to us, especially if they were cooking.
But that Sunday, I walked up to my grandmother, chopping up the raw meat, without her noticing my arrival, and announced:
"Someone's knocking at the door," my grandmother was about to scold me, but she just asked:
"Who is it?" she asked, the knife resting on the meat and her apron splattered with blood.
"I think it's my grandfather," I didn't assure her, even though I knew it was him. I saw my grandmother's face turn pale, and then she resumed her work:
"Tell your father to open," she ordered.
Indeed, it was my grandfather who had arrived from the fields. That day, he brought oranges, lemons, pineapples, and avocado in a sack. He also brought sugarcane and tulips. It was normal for my grandfather, whenever he visited us, to bring us many things from his farm:
"I brought a lot of fruit for the girls. Eat, eat," my grandfather would say, and we would quickly loot the sack.
My grandmother had barely come out of the kitchen and greeted him from a distance: she was still holding the knife.
"What are you doing there?" my grandmother asked.
"I came to bring some goods to the market, but I'm leaving now," my grandfather replied, sticking his head in one of the sacks, like someone guilty of a crime or feeling ashamed.
"No, Dad, stay so you can eat. Maíta is making soup," my father asked my grandfather, and my grandmother entered the kitchen, not before murmuring:
"I'll have to put some water in the pot."
That Sunday was like all the Sundays of my childhood, when the adults were home and we seemed like stray animals, jumping from one place to another or lying at their feet while they talked. But everything changed when my grandmother served the soup:
"Come eat," she shouted from the kitchen. The first to sit at the table were my grandfather and my father, then we did.
"I don't want soup," I said as soon as I sat down at the table. It was normal for me to complain, every Sunday, and for the adults to force me to eat lunch, but that day no one listened to me.
"Maita, aren't you going to sit down?" Dad asked.
"No," my grandmother said and sat in a corner, apart from the rest.
My grandfather began to talk about some sales, and from the corner, my grandmother said:
"Who doesn't know you, let them buy you." My grandfather looked at her angrily and then continued talking. To everything my grandfather said, my grandmother had a response, a reproach. Then there was silence, and only I complained again:
"They gave me too much soup. I'm not going to eat it all".
Without finishing the meal, my grandfather said he was leaving, as he had other matters to attend to. Dad didn't stop him, then he also pushed the soup away and walked my grandfather to the door. Everyone stood up from the table, except for me, who hadn't eaten anything. It was then that my grandmother poured herself broth, vegetables, and a small piece of meat into a small bowl.
"I don't want soup," I repeated like a broken record when I saw her sit down.
"If you don't want it, don't eat it," my grandmother said strangely, as if she weren't the one speaking. I didn't know what to do as I watched a few flies buzzing around my soup, which looked like a dead whale on a beach, so all I could think of to say was:
"My grandfather is good, he brought us fruit."
"Good? Don't fool yourself: all that glitters is not gold, and at one time the devil also had wings," my grandmother said, and although that day was Sunday, it wasn't a normal Sunday; it was a strange Sunday.
All images are free of charge and the text is my own, translated in Google
Thank you for reading and commenting. Until a future reading, friends
![Click here to read in spanish]
Un extraño domingo
En casa, todos los domingos eran iguales: mi abuela comenzaba a hacer el almuerzo desde temprano, mi mamá madrugaba para lavar la ropa de todos, papá arreglaba los desperfectos de la casa y nosotras nos despertábamos tarde. Pero aquel domingo sería diferente.
La sopa era la comida de los domingos y la abuela era la encargada de pelar las verduras, trocear la carne y aliñar el agua hervida encima de la estufa. Nosotras íbamos y veníamos por la casa, en pijamas, bostezando, haciendo las tareas escolares del lunes, sin poder acercarnos a la cocina:
_No se acerquen a la cocina - gritaban los adultos desde cualquier parte de la casa: desde que mi hermana menor le había caído una olla con agua hirviendo encima, aquella zona de la casa estaba vedada para nosotras, especialmente si estaban cocinando.
Pero aquel domingo yo llegué hasta donde estaba mi abuela, troceando la carne cruda, sin que ella se percatara de mi llegada y le anuncié:
_Alguien llama a la puerta - mi abuela estaba a punto de regañarme, pero solo preguntó:
_¿Quién es? - preguntó con el cuchillo sobre la carne y el delantal salpicado de sangre.
_Creo que es mi abuelo - no le aseguré aunque sabía que sí era él. Vi el rostro de mi abuela ponerse pálido y luego retomar su trabajo:
_Dile a tu papá que le abra - me ordenó.
Efectivamente era mi abuelo quien había llegado del campo. Ese día trajo, en un saco, naranjas, limones, piñas y aguacate, también trajo caña de azúcar y tulipanes. Era normal que mi abuelo, cada vez que nos visitaba, nos llevara muchas cosas de su hacienda:
_Les traje muchas frutas a las niñas. Coman, coman - decía mi abuelo y nosotras saqueábamos el saco rápidamente.
Mi abuela apenas salió de la cocina y lo saludó desde lejos: llevaba aún el cuchillo en las manos.
_¿Qué haces por ahí? - preguntó mi abuela.
_Vine a traer una mercancía al mercado, pero ya me voy - respondió mi abuelo metiendo la cabeza en uno de los sacos, como el que tiene algún delito o siente vergüenza.
_No, paíto, quédese para que coma. Maíta está haciendo sopa - le pidió mi padre a mi abuelo y mi abuela entró a la cocina no sin antes murmurar:
_Tendré que echarle agua a la olla.
Aquel domingo se parecía a todos los domingos de mi niñez donde los adultos estaban en casa y nosotras parecíamos animalitos realengos saltando de un lugar a otro o nos echábamos a los pies de ellos, mientras hablaban. >Pero todo cambió cuando mi abuela sirvió la sopa:
_Vengan a comer - gritó desde la cocina. Los primeros en sentarse a la mesa fueron mi abuelo y mi papá, luego lo hicimos nosotras:
_Yo no quiero sopa - dije apenas me senté en la mesa. Era normal que me quejara, cada domingo, y que los adultos me obligaran a comer el almuerzo, pero aquel día nadie me hizo caso.
_¿Maita, usted no se va a sentar? - preguntó papá.
_No - expresó mi abuela y se sentó en una esquina, separada del resto.
Mi abuelo comenzó a decir algo de unas ventas y desde la esquina, mi abuela dijo:
_Quién no te conoce, que te compre - mi abuelo la miró con rabia y luego siguió hablando. A todo lo que mi abuelo decía, mi abuela tenía una respuesta, un reproche. Luego se hizo el silencio y solo yo volví a quejarme:
_Me echaron mucha sopa. No me la voy comer toda.
Sin terminar la comida, mi abuelo dijo que se marcharía, ya que tenía que resolver otros asuntos. Papá no lo detuvo, luego también apartó la sopa y acompañó a mi abuelo hasta la puerta. Todos se pararon de la mesa, excepto yo que no había comido nada. Fue entonces cuando mi abuela, se sirvió caldo, verdura y un trocito de carne en un recipiente pequeño.
_Yo no quiero sopa - repetí como disco rayado, cuando la vi sentarse.
_Si no quieres, no comas - dijo mi abuela extrañamente, como si no fuera ella la que hablara. Yo no sabía qué hacer mientras veía varias moscas revolotear mi sopa, la cual parecía una ballena muerta en la orilla, así que solo se me ocurrió decir:
_Mi abuelo sí es bueno, nos trajo frutas.
_¿Bueno? No te engañes: no todo lo que brilla es oro y en un momento el diablo también tuvo alas - dijo mi abuela y aunque aquel día era domingo, no fue un domingo normal, fue un domingo extraño.