When Maria's mother makes arroz con habichuelas y tostones, we trade dinners. If it's a school night, I'll run to Maria's house, a plate of my mother's baked chicken with kraft mac and cheese, sometimes box corn bread , sometimes canned string beans, warm in my hands, ready for the first taste of Maria's mother's garlicky rice and beans, crushed green bananas fried and salted and warm... maria will be waiting, her own plate covered in foil. sometimeswe sit side by side on her stoop, our traded plates in our laps.What are you guys eating? the neighborhood kids ask but we never answer, too busy shoveling food into our mouths. Your mother makes the best chicken, Maria says. the best corn bread. the best everything yeah I say I guess my grandma taught her something after all.
trading places
I chose this poem because it reminds me of when I was little and everything made me excited, like the first time I went to a restaurant. The waiters moving around the place giving everyone food seemed so quick and crazy, but it was just regular to my parents. It's normal to me now, but it was special to me because it was rare and new. Just like how jacqueline and maria traded food.