Does anything exist at this hour, when my footsteps crash, and my breathing screams? When every slight movement I make, Feels like a leap? When I’m all alone, my house is quiet. Outside the streetlights blur, and twist themselves into shapes that spotlight on the patch of gravel, that’s empty No one is there, to stand in that spotlight, and listen to the applause, of the grass, blowing in the wind. And I am inside, looking out, at an empty place, that I wish were mine. Cora W. Bucher,13Missoula, Montana
September/October 2007
Saturday Night at the Panadería
A fresh, warm, yeasty smell drifts through the screen door of the panadería and out onto the sidewalk. As if under some magic spell, we find that we must follow the command of the sweet fragrance and allow ourselves to be pulled inside the small brick building. As we enter the bakery we stand, staring in amazement at all the beautiful pastries behind the glass display case doors that surround us. There are dozens of different kinds, each more exquisite and tasty-looking than the last. My mouth begins to water… Oh, how I long to sink my teeth into each and every one of them! Should I try something new this time? Or stick with trusted old favorites? It is a Saturday night and the bakers in the panadería are hard at work, their conversations in their native Spanish washing over us like music. They are busy preparing for the following morning’s crowds. Everyone will come in after church tomorrow, dressed in their Sunday best… Women in brightly colored dresses, clustered together and resembling beautiful bouquets of brilliant flowers. Men in starched and ironed Western shirts, wearing straw cowboy hats and their highly polished boots, all reserved especially for Sundays. Abuelos and abuelas, shepherding their little grandchildren into the bakery where they will stand and stare in awe… their eyes big, their tiny hands pressed against the glass doors, mesmerized by the delectable pastries inside. Although the churros, long spirals powdered with cinnamon and stuffed to perfection with sweet creamy custard filling, tempt us to choose them, the rest of the pastries all call out to us as well. Cream spurts out the sides and dribbles onto the tray. Oops… I look around. On one shelf I see empanadas de frutas. These are miniature fruit pies, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand… flaky dough wrapped around fillings of apple, pineapple, strawberry, mango, lemon or peach. There are pan de huevos, egg breads, sometimes called conchas or seashells because that’s what their concentric rings make them look like. Small plump buns, very plain and somewhat dry, they are covered with a thin glaze of powdered-sugar icing tinted in shades of pink, yellow, tan, and white. For all their pretty colors they are still a bread instead of a pastry, and not really sweet enough for me. I see reposterías, or cookies, of every description. Most are bigger than my hand. Some have frosting, others are dusted with sugar, still others are coated with multicolored sprinkles. Many of the cookies themselves are made from colored dough. Some are bright pink and others are a deep gold. The brown ones are chocolate. Payasos (clowns) are triangular-shaped cookies made with all three doughs, yellow, pink and brown. It’s so hard to choose! There are my favorites! Cuernos de azucar, or sugar horns. They look a lot like a croissant, and like croissants some are plain while others are filled. The ones I like best are filled with rich yellow custard. All of them, even the plain ones, are coated with a thick layer of sugar on the outside. Un sabor pequeno del cielo! A little taste of heaven! Unlike most other bakeries, panaderías are self-serve. I open the glass doors of the display case and, taking a pair of gigantic red tongs, use them to pluck the pastries of my choosing from the shelves. I place the pastries on a plastic tray which resembles the one my lunch comes on in the school cafeteria. As I use the tongs, I grab my cuerno too hard. Cream spurts out the sides and dribbles onto the tray. Oops… But what a great excuse to grab a second one! Mom doesn’t say no, she is too busy looking at all the other pastries, so I take another horn, handling this one much more carefully. I like using the tongs, so I ask the rest of my family what they want. It turns out that what they want most are goodies that don’t have the fillings squeezed out of them, so they decide to use the tongs themselves to choose their own sweets. Dad picks out a marranito, or gingerbread pig, and a pineapple hojita, a fruit tart made from pan fino, or sweet bread and filled with piña, or pineapple. My sister picks out a pastel para los niños, a slice of a single-layer moist vanilla cake, covered in fluffy pink frosting and sprinkles. Pastel means cake, and para los niños means for the children. My sister doesn’t mind, even though she is eighteen and almost all grown up. She will normally argue fiercely that she is no longer a child, but hey, this is cake we’re talking about! My mother is already at the counter, asking for a slice of pastel de tres leches or tres leches cake. This is the only treat kept in a refrigerated case. It is a very moist, sweet cake, soaked in a mixture of three milks, with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Luckily for us, Mom can never eat a whole piece, so she always shares. A forkful or two is enough for most of us because it is so rich. I always try to get the cherry. The shopkeeper rings up our order. All our pastries together cost less than three dollars! We walk outside, happy and content, clutching bags filled with our fresh warm pastries. We can hardly wait to get home and enjoy them. Dad says the best part about our trip to the panadería is that it’s like a ten-minute vacation to Mexico. I say the best part about our trip is eating the things we take home. Mexican pastries are the best! William Gwaltney, 11Englewood, Colorado
From Terror to Triumph
A low growl vibrated out of his snarling jaws. Drool trickled over the cruelly glinting teeth and onto the cracked concrete sidewalk where he stood in a threatening stance. His brown eyes, which portrayed nothing but pure hatred, pierced the small toddler’s who stood stiff with fear in front of him. The little girl, four years old at the time, was frozen in a trance, too afraid to run, or even tremble. A scream was caught in the back of her throat that would not escape. A lower growl from her assailer at last set it free. “Mommy!” the girl shrieked. The dog pounced with a sickening half-growl and half-yelp, and all Asa remembered was hitting the concrete with the dog’s hot breath on her neck. * * * “My favorite animal has to be dogs.” “Hmm?” Asa was jerked out of that nightmarish recollection as she realized her friend Jenny was talking to her. “Hello?” Jenny joked. “Anybody home in there?” “Sorry” Asa replied, shifting her crystal-blue backpack to her left shoulder. “I was just thinking.” “About what?” Asa shrugged. Not many people knew about the incident of her and the aggressive dog, even though it had been all over the news when it had happened. Asa rubbed her throat gently, running her finger along the familiar five-inch-long scar that ran along the side of her neck, curving into the middle of her throat. Jenny, like most people who knew Asa, had in the past asked where she got the scar, but Asa always replied evasively, “In an accident.” So far, she hadn’t met anyone who had pushed to know the full story. “Wanna hold him?” jenny offered, nuzzling the small black-and-white Great Dane “Well, you have to see my neighbor’s new puppies,” Jenny went on with her dialogue. “There are three of them, two boys and a girl, and they are just the cutest things in this world.” “What?” Asa interrupted, totally lost in the conversation. “Weren’t you listening to me previously?” Jenny chided playfully. “I was talking about Ella’s three puppies.” Asa shuddered slightly at the thought of the huge Great Dane. “Ella’s Mrs. Lander’s dog, right?” “Yup, and the puppies look just like her.” Jenny gave a little skip. “They’re just not as big.” Yet, thought Asa. Ella was a sweet, gentle giant, but her size intimidated Asa immensely. And the thought of three more giants like her… Asa shuddered again. “Are you all right?” Jenny queried, looking into her friend’s face. “You look pale.” “Oh no, I’m fine.” Asa straightened and smiled, but it was rather strained and unnatural. Jenny looked unconvinced, but she didn’t pressure Asa into telling. “So, do you want to come see Ella’s pups with me?” Jenny continued. “Mrs. Lander is letting me come over today, and…” “No!” Asa almost shouted, with a slight tremble in her voice. Jenny’s mouth fell open. Asa blushed and shuffled her feet more quickly. She was almost home. Just around this corner here… “I better go, Asa,” Jenny murmured with a half-confused, half-apologetic glance. “See you.” “Bye, Jenny,” Asa sighed with a slight wave of her hand. When her friend had left her, Asa dashed down the sidewalk to her house, as if a mad dog was right at her heels. The door slammed behind her as she jumped through it and skidded into the kitchen, taking a deep breath as she came to a halt. The smell of homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies greeted her like a warm hug, snug and assuring. Asa dropped her backpack and kicked off her new dress shoes that were required for the school’s dress code. Asa followed the delicious smell to the oven, where the oven light illuminated two pans of yummy goodness. BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEP! Asa jumped as the timer blared its warning, and the clatter of footsteps was heard on the stairs. Asa’s eighteen-year-old sister, Ann, hurried into the kitchen, snatched an oven mitt, opened the oven door, took out pan number one, set it on the counter, and said, “Hi, Asa,” all in one whirl of activity. After Ann took out the second pan, she asked, “Could you get out the cooling racks, Ace?” Asa rummaged through a cluttered cabinet and found the racks. She set them on the counter. “Ann?” “Yes?” Ann thrust a spatula underneath one lightly toasted cookie, and then let it slide off onto a rack with a helping shake. “Do you think that people should follow all that advice about facing their fears?” Ann crossed her arms and leaned against the counter thinking. All fear affects your life, Asa” “Well, I guess,” Ann replied. “I mean, people can’t just live in fear all their lives.” “But what if the fear is something minor?” Asa touched her scar briefly. “Something that won’t affect your life very much?” Ann crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, thinking. “All fear affects your life, Asa.” She peered knowingly into Asa’s face. “Are you thinking of dogs?” Asa nodded, taking a warm cookie and gazing at it steadily. “I just—well, I hate being afraid,” Asa admitted, breaking the cookie in two and watching the crumbs bounce on the tiled floor and skitter under cabinets. “It’s like I’m a wimp, or something. I know most dogs won’t hurt me, but I don’t believe it.” Ann leaned over and pulled Asa to her side, her shiny black curls touching Asa’s light brown forehead. “Did something happen at school that scared you, Ace?” Asa shook her head. “All that happened was Jenny invited me to go see three puppies, and I freaked out.” Asa sighed. “I think puppies are adorable, but they scare me to death.” Ann’s brown eyes shone with under- standing. “So what are you going to do about it?” “What?” “Are you going to be afraid, or are you going to face your fear?” Asa was silent, fidgeting with the broken cookie in her hands. At last she looked up. “I think I need the
