Somewhere, my Abuelita is laughing at me.

My grandmother used to do all the cooking for the family, just about every night. She lived upstairs from us in an apartment building in the Bronx. She cooked typical Puerto Rican meals, heavy on the yellow rice (I hated yellow rice) and red beans (I hated red beans), occasional small pieces of steak (I hated steak), usually with onions (I hated onions). More than once, I would get a special serving of white rice and corn, so I could be spared the indignity of the meal Abuelita had spent so much time preparing for the rest of the family.

Fast forward... Years after Abuelita's passing, I'm a stepfather, and about twice a week, it's my job to cook for the family. Nothing fancy, mind you. I'm not much of a cook. But I make some fantastic spaghetti sauce, which becomes "pasta sauce" when you serve it with anything other than spaghetti. Sometimes, if I have one handy, I'll even cut up an onion to add that extra little bit of flavor. I love the taste of cooked onions. The other night, my wife asked if I could make sausage and peppers. Yum. And boil some spaghetti, too.

The sausage and peppers were just about ready when Christine and the girls got home. The younger one, Paxtynn, asked me when dinner would be ready. I pointed to the spaghetti, still boiling with about four minutes to go. "That'll be a couple of minutes," I said. Then I pointed to the sausage and peppers and said, "That's just about rea..."

"I don't like that!" she interrupted, as if to say, "You don't really expect me to eat the centerpiece of the meal you've prepared, do you?"

She is such a fussy eater. A hint of sauce for spaghetti, but no more. Ribs? She'll take two and eat half of one, leaving the rest on her plate. Rice? Sometimes, but not much. She doesn't like this. She doesn't like that (but she'll eat uncooked noodles straight out of the box like it's a potato chip -- I don't get that). No consideration for the work that goes into preparing a meal. Taste buds that can't handle taste. My masterpieces, unappreciated in their time. She's like a little, annoying, bratty, fussy... female version of me when I was her age.

When I remember that, I smile. Sometimes I laugh. She has no idea how much it stings when she points to food I've made and says "I don't like that." I never thought of what it must feel like to my Abuelita, who must be looking down at the situation right now and thinking, "Ah ha. Ahora sabes!"

"Now you know."

I do. And I know she's laughing. And I'm laughing with her. Lo siento, Abuelita. Y gracias.

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