ESPAÑOL
Pan salado, queso ahumado, panela hecha miel y clavos, los ingredientes que usaba mi madre para hacer curruchete, una de las cosas más sabrosas que he probado, hablo de las que hacían sus manos. Cierro los ojos y la veo mientras lava algún plato, sazona alguna comida o le da volumen al radio de teclas para saber el desenlace de la radionovela que la tiene en suspenso desde hace dos meses.
Era su voz girando alrededor del patio, las canciones de María Luisa Landín acariciando las rosas, y sus manos, como mariposas danzantes entre el sol de la tarde, cosiendo mis viejos pantalones, planchando mis camisas, acariciando mi pelo mientras me contaba del día en el que casi se la llevaba un arco iris del que su abuela la salvó haciéndole una cruz de chimó en la frente.
Otra cosa que hacía era mazamorra de churí, aún siento el sabor de aquella cremosa delicia en mis labios, no sé cómo la hacía y nunca más quise probar otra, por lo que solo vive en los recuerdos que van del corazón al alma. En las noches tranquilas, me contaba de Pedro Rimales, un pícaro bandido que siempre burlaba al rey, de Tío Tigre y Tío Conejo y de otros personajes que la hacían sentir aventurera y libre.
Mi madre era analfabeta, por lo que cuando aprendí a leer yo le leía, le hablaba de mis libros de historia natural, de dinosaurios y leones, de islas y piratas, le mostraba mis dibujos y me acurrucaba en el sitio más cercano a sus latidos. A veces le contaba un chiste que traía de la escuela o ella me contaba algo jocoso de su infancia y ambos reíamos y su risa se enredaba en el aire como la niebla en los sauces del bosque.
Mi madre hacía dulces, empanadas y algunas otras cosas, y aunque después me di cuenta que no era una muy buena cocinera, si quisiera hablar de sus comidas, necesitaría mucho espacio y valor en mi pecho para guardar tanta melancolía y no lo tengo. Es solo que hoy no tengo nada más que escribir sino de la gastronomía del alma. Es solo que hoy todo me la recuerda, solo es eso, solo es todo, mi madre.
Salty bread, smoked cheese, panela made honey and cloves, the ingredients my mother used to make curruchete, one of the tastiest things I've ever tasted, I'm talking about the ones made by her hands. I close my eyes and watch her as she washes a dish, seasons a meal or turns up the volume on the key radio to find out the outcome of the radio soap opera that has kept her in suspense for the past two months.
It was her voice spinning around the patio, the songs of María Luisa Landín caressing the roses, and her hands, like dancing butterflies in the afternoon sun, sewing my old pants, ironing my shirts, caressing my hair while she told me about the day a rainbow almost took her from which her grandmother saved her by making a chimó cross on her forehead.
Another thing she used to make was churí mazamorra, I still feel the taste of that creamy delight on my lips, I don't know how she made it and I never wanted to try another one, so it only lives in the memories that go from the heart to the soul. On quiet nights, she would tell me about Pedro Rimales, a mischievous bandit who always teased the king, about Tio Tigre and Tio Conejo and other characters that made her feel adventurous and free.
My mother was illiterate, so when I learned to read I would read to her, tell her about my natural history books, about dinosaurs and lions, about islands and pirates, show her my drawings and curl up in the place closest to her heartbeat. Sometimes I would tell her a joke I brought home from school or she would tell me something jocular from her childhood and we would both laugh and her laughter would hang in the air like mist in the willows of the forest.
My mother made sweets, empanadas and some other things, and although I realized later that she was not a very good cook, if I wanted to talk about her meals, I would need a lot of space and courage in my chest to keep so much melancholy and I don't have it. It's just that today I have nothing else to write about but the gastronomy of the soul. It's just that today everything reminds me of her, that's all, that's all, my mother.
ENGLISH
Salty bread, smoked cheese, panela made honey and cloves, the ingredients my mother used to make curruchete, one of the tastiest things I've ever tasted, I'm talking about the ones made by her hands. I close my eyes and watch her as she washes a dish, seasons a meal or turns up the volume on the key radio to find out the outcome of the radio soap opera that has kept her in suspense for the past two months.
It was her voice spinning around the patio, the songs of María Luisa Landín caressing the roses, and her hands, like dancing butterflies in the afternoon sun, sewing my old pants, ironing my shirts, caressing my hair while she told me about the day a rainbow almost took her from which her grandmother saved her by making a chimó cross on her forehead.
Another thing she used to make was churí mazamorra, I still feel the taste of that creamy delight on my lips, I don't know how she made it and I never wanted to try another one, so it only lives in the memories that go from the heart to the soul. On quiet nights, she would tell me about Pedro Rimales, a mischievous bandit who always teased the king, about Tio Tigre and Tio Conejo and other characters that made her feel adventurous and free.
My mother was illiterate, so when I learned to read I would read to her, tell her about my natural history books, about dinosaurs and lions, about islands and pirates, show her my drawings and curl up in the place closest to her heartbeat. Sometimes I would tell her a joke I brought home from school or she would tell me something jocular from her childhood and we would both laugh and her laughter would hang in the air like mist in the willows of the forest.
My mother made sweets, empanadas and some other things, and although I realized later that she was not a very good cook, if I wanted to talk about her meals, I would need a lot of space and courage in my chest to keep so much melancholy and I don't have it. It's just that today I have nothing else to write about but the gastronomy of the soul. It's just that today everything reminds me of her, that's all, that's all, my mother.
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)
Espero que les haya gustado, hasta una proxima
La foto fue tomada con una cámara digital que tenia mi tio