The Pupusas Made By My Mother By Fatima Perez

My mother’s delicate hands shape the dough into a sort of rounded position, leaving a

deep opening for the filling. The maseca mixture was stuck between the crevices of her fingers

and nails. The oil dripped off the table, one drop after the other. My mother had formed such a

perfect circle. My mother knew how to make pupusas before I was even born. “Mija, I don’t

know. A longggg time ago.” My mother scratched her head as she contemplated my question

about when she had started making pupusas. I remember when she gave me the first bite of a

pupusa. I was a year old, and I kept drumming on my high chair table, begging for the cheesy-

filled goodness to consume my developing taste buds. At least, that’s how my mother tells it.

From that day on, pupusas had become one of my favorite foods. So much so that I wanted to

learn how to make them someday.

My mother provided for me the best that she could. She had always wanted the American

dream of going to college, getting a well-paying job, and settling down comfortably. That dream

was never going to be her reality. Regardless, she still loved to cook; it was something she held

onto so dearly. Every week, she prepared whatever was available, and she was the type to make

something out of nothing. She even liked to experiment with new recipes so I wouldn’t get bored

of the same thing. She made sure that I was always eating, asking me to be her taste tester. “Does

it need more seasoning, Mija?” My mother looked at me with awe. "No, mama, it’s delicious." It

was a taste I would never get sick of.

I was 11 when I learned how to make pupusas. “Mija, asi no!" my mother exclaimed as

she took my hands and guided me step by step into the process. First was the maseca mixture,

kneading it into a big ball from which one could take pieces. Next is the filling, which is made

from cheese, beans, or pork. My hands are coated in oil so it doesn’t completely stick, and then I

grab a piece of dough, round it to make a deep opening for the filling, close it up, and my finger

press the ball a bit down to start forming the circle. That perfect circle. “Ok, mama. I think I got

it.” Alright, I got the dough, which I formed into a ball. The edges look a little wonky, but I

started to fix them. The dough then fell apart in my tiny hands. “Mama, no puedo. I can’t do

this.” Tears started to form around my eyes, and my mother sat me down, wiping them with her

fingers. I separated myself not only from the dough but also from my mother. The only daughter

she had became a constant disappointment.

"Why can’t you understand I’m busy?” I wish I could take back those words. All she

wanted was time. Time to spend with her only daughter, who resembled her the most. “Mama, I

don’t want to. Please leave.” I wanted nothing to do with her. I mean, how could I spend all this

time with her when there’s a cute soccer player I’m interested in? My friends need me the most,

especially when they need something important. “Get back here, Fatima Gabriela. I’m not done

with you.” I slammed the door in her face. I could hear the footsteps becoming fainter and fainter

as she left. My mother’s pain became an inconvenience as she whimpered for me. Her decaying

youth started to show more and more, and I was too blind to even look back.

I came home from college. The atmosphere almost felt so familiar to me. The smell of

that cheesy stuffed tortilla wafted in the air—the one that I have always known. My mother was

there, flipping a pupusa and cooking it to perfection. That perfect circle was coming into play as

my mother shaped it, filling in the gaps with her fingers. “Hola mija. I have a pupusa here for

you.” She gave it to me on a plate, along with the fermented curtido and salsa to pour on top. She

paused what she was doing and sat with me. She cut the pupusa up for me and watched me take a

bite of her creation, adoration in her eyes. Our relationship began to soften at its rough edges,

and we had a real moment for the first time in a while.