A Cast Iron Memory of My Mamá
Poetic Memoir: In the words of the grape picker’s daughter
At the break of early dawn, her first tortilla splats down on the hot, black, round cast-iron face sending a joyful echo through the place.
Watching and wiggling, I find it hard, waiting for the first taste.
What a pleasing aroma, swirling and drifting across my mamá’s…