Green, White and Red & Red, White and Green

Sometimes I can still hear the sounds of yesteryears. My family's voices, their conversations reverberate. And I recall my father's and uncle's ardent discussions of the revolution years after the fact, the play and replay of 1956- during so many family gatherings. And I remember too, broken English - when speaking to Americans, and I, the embarrassed child with parents who sounded like Bela Lugosi and Zsa Zsa Gabor. But there are other memories that pull me back, colorful bursts of flowers intricately embroidered on tablecloths and blouses - poppies and daisies, bluebells and strands of red banana peppers. And lacy doilies crocheted by my grandmother- adorning everything, from the armrests of sofas to the underside of porcelain figurines and ashtrays, these doilies that I've kept, now yellowed with time but still reminiscent of gossamer snowflakes or spider webs. And the delights of the kitchen- those tastes and smells that linger... Oh, how my grandmother, mother and aunt could produce magic in a hearty bowl of gulyas, spicy chicken paprikas, and sweet crepes called palacsinta- sprinkled with sugar and filled with apricot jelly. But all of this was yesterday, and yesterday was carried away as if by the tune of a gypsy's violin wildly crescendoing one moment- only to ebb and then fade at the next... So too, memories of my childhood fade... And now, middle-aged into the new millenium it is salsa, merengue and cumbia that quickens my blood. Now, I am lulled to sleep by Los Temerarios as they croon, "Te quiero mi amor, Te necessito". And today, I watch my husband prepare Chilis Poblanos carefully stuffing them with crumbly goat's cheese ever so carefully- so as not to rupture the pepper's delicate skin frail and charred from stovetop grilling. And I watch in wonder as he garnishes his creation with pomegranate seeds- these seeds like memories, hard kernels encased in a sweet, succulent membrane, like blood red drops - the blood of heritage.