Mama’s meatballs were prepared with my pet goats. She would never let me name them because she thought I would get attached. I would name them anyway like the American TV characters from the shows on TV: Brain, Charlie, Angelica. When mama would kill one, I would cry: There goes Angelica. That goat had her temper. The first time she served me the meatballs I refused to eat them. The second time I took a bite. Then I looked forward to the meat and mom’s spaghetti every week. American meat, I have learned with time, tastes better.
María Alejandra can be followed on Twitter @MariaaleBave.