A visit to a favorite Los Angeles bakery sparks a series of memories about the writer’s family When I walked into the bakery on Cesar Chavez Avenue in East Los Angeles, my lungs were instantly flooded with the sweet air of butter and sugar wafting from the kitchen while pots and pans clanked and banged loudly and voices called out in Spanish. My mouth watered as my eyes scanned the many kinds of pan dulce displayed in neat rows. The lights shone brightly on the sweet breads. I could feel the heat from the pot of homemade tamales, and I craved one of the Mexican sodas in the glass fridge. I clutched my $5 bill, knowing I could walk out with a large bag of pan dulce for my family and a soda for myself and still have change. I ordered three kinds of pan dulce: elote, concha, and a large cuerno, named for their corn, shell, and horn shapes. I reached into the white paper bag of treats, the bottom stained with warm grease. My papa always said, “If the bottom is greasy, you know it’s good.” I bit into the concha, and the familiar sweet smell and ridged texture flooded my senses. The top of the bread crumbled and filled my mouth with its sugary flavor. The center of the bread was especially warm and soft. The smell reminded me of my Aunt Lulu’s kitchen. I wondered what it was like for my father to walk to this bakery at four years old, clinging to the hand of my great-grandfather, Agustín, and to taste the delicious concha for the first time. As I walked to the car, I reflected on all of my family members who had once lived here, on the streets of East Los Angeles and nearby Boyle Heights: the Davilas, the Ramoses, the Ordoñezes, and the Villalobos. I could feel the presence of my ancestors who walked down these streets in the 1940s and 1950s enjoying the treats of this bakery. I could picture my grandfather’s little dog running down the sidewalk and my grandmother in her favorite orange dress. Today, my family has grown even bigger and has spread across Southern California, but they still travel miles back to this bakery and wait in line to get pan dulce and tamales for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. The cuernos are still my papa’s favorite. Remembering, I could not resist. I reached into the warm bag and removed the large, freshly baked, yellow-and-gold, horn-shaped cuerno, ripped off the corner, and watched the steam slowly swirling as it spilled its sweet scent into the cool night air. I bit into it as it spilled its warmth onto my taste buds, and the crisp outer layer crunched satisfyingly. I washed it down with bubbly Coke, instantly cooling the sugary warmth that filled my stomach. It is true what they say: the Coke from Mexico in the green glass bottle tastes better. The faded, rusted sign out front symbolizes that the bakery remains unchanged and original in this vibrant neighborhood. The same Catholic church where my grandfather went to kindergarten is still across the street. I can tell he misses this place because he tells stories about it a lot. My fingers feel the paper bag to make sure there is an elote inside for him. Rubina Davila, 13Sierra Madre, CA
May 2021
Perspective
Pencil Grace Williams, 12Katonah, NY
Ripples in the Pond
Humans interrupt a peaceful day in the forest The forest had always been peaceful. The forest was where you would stand still and feel the earth beneath your feet. It was where you would inhale the sweet forest air that was full of the invigorating scent of tree bark and green leaves and fresh earth. The forest had that unmistakable feel of authenticity: it made you feel alive. It was where you would hear the gentle cooing of birds from their perches in the trees, where you would hear the crackle of leaves and the occasional sound of a single leaf softly falling from its branch. You would hear the mellifluous echo of the flowing river as the water coursed smoothly down, making small white waves. You would see fluffy little rabbits hopping to and fro, and you would see busy squirrels scampering up the sturdy trunks of leafy oaks. You would see birds with wings outstretched circling high above the topmost branches of tall pines. You would see wood ducks splashing through the river and turtles basking on the rocks beside it. And if you went deeper in, you would see the small circular pond, sheltered by slender white birches, reflecting its surroundings in the clear, unbroken mirror of its water. You might even glimpse the antlers of a stag. Or you might see a bushy red tail just before its owner scrambled off into the depths of the woods . . . * * * A thirsty fox makes his way toward the pond for a drink of water. The soft flutter of wings as a wood thrush hurriedly takes flight reaches his ears, and he looks up, flicking his tail. Seeing the rustling of bushes as two rabbits scamper out of his way, he pauses a moment, then turns and resumes his way. (Swish, crackle, flutter) Loping through the tangled undergrowth that carpets the floor of the forest, the fox reaches the pond, where he crouches and drinks thirstily. The water shifts and ripples, creating a distorted image of the fox. A moment later, he tenses and leaps up, ears twitching upright, alert black eyes soundlessly darting back and forth among the trees. (Crack, scrape, snap) Human footsteps: crushing leaves, snapping twigs. Human voices: shrill laughter, giggling, whispering. (Thud, whiz—) The fox throws himself to one side just as a smooth stone cuts sharply through the air in a high arc. It passes directly above the spot the fox has just vacated and splashes, hissing and singing, into the center of the smooth, glass-like surface of the pond. The surface shatters and the stone disappears. The fox, as silent and unmoving as the trees, gazes fixedly into the dense woods. (Ripples . . .) The human forms saunter away, leaving behind them harsh, echoing laughter that rings mockingly in his ears. Their dark shadows are momentarily reflected in his eyes, and the eyes darken, growing blacker than ever, before he turns away. Karen Susanto, 13Rancho Palos Verdes, CA Grace Gorzelany, 10Glen Ridge, NJ
