Three hours and counting

Mom called this afternoon while I was folding laundry, and somehow we ended up talking for three hours straight.

Three hours and counting

I can’t remember the last time we had a conversation that long without it feeling forced or awkward.

We started with the usual stuff - work, Jake, what I’m making for dinner - but then she brought up the family recipe project again. This time instead of just asking if I’d found Abuela’s cookbook, she actually started telling me stories about watching her own grandmother cook when she was little. Real stories, with details I’ve never heard before.

The conversation shifted to quieter territory.

She told me about how Abuela Rosa used to wake up at 4am to start the masa for tamales, and how the whole house would smell like corn and chili by sunrise. How she’d stand on a wooden crate to reach the counter and help roll the dough. Mom’s voice got softer when she talked about it, like she was remembering something precious.

I found myself wishing I was there, in Mom’s kitchen, learning these things in person instead of over the phone. Maybe it’s time to actually plan that trip to see Abuela Rosa. Some conversations are too important for distance.