MPitS  

West Hills Community School
2007/2008

Christmas Eve at Gram's house

was always filled with love

from her soft warm hugs

to the smell of her chocolate fudge.

I would stir in the chunks of chocolate

while hiding some in my pockets.

Then, run around skipping

on the overwhelming sugar high.

My sister would open the oven

and then, it was hard not to steal.

When she pulled out the fudge,

the smell was too-real!

Samantha G.
West Hills School
Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

My jefa's enchiladas:

Her enchiladas are like my family.

The tortilla is what keeps us together.

The stuff inside is the problems,

but the picante gives the family

a flavor of happiness.

And my problems melt away like cheese

and I get the good taste.

Juan C.
West Hills School
Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

I remember my mom's

homemade fried chicken,

my lil'nephew's first birthday,

crunchy like the wrapping on a present.

Hot on the inside

like the sun.

Andre F.
West Hills School
Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

My grandmother's spaghetti

when I was young,

it felt like a party on my tongue.

The time she put in it,

her love and care.

I did not waste it.

I did not dare.

While I'm by her side

stirring the pasta,

she always gulps down

a lemon-lime Shasta.

Every year,

the day I grow older,

my grandma leans over

and hugs my shoulder.

Every year, she says the same thing:

"Let's make the pasta

you eat in your dreams."

Nicole H.
West Hills School
Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

I remember my mom's waffles,

every square, a part of our lives.

It's like our family saying:

Many people are like waffles.

They go from one square to the next.

And many people

are like a plate of spaghetti.

They don't know which noodle

they will travel to next.

My mother's waffles

remind me of our family.

She is a waffle in some ways

and then, she is a plate of spaghetti.

There are times when she can go

from one square to the next,

and then, there are times

when she doesn't know

which noodle to travel to.

She holds our family together well

when she is a waffle.

She doesn't do so well

when she is a plate of spaghetti.

But no matter which one she is,

She will always be our spices

or the syrup that holds us together.

Rebecca N.
West Hills School
Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

I remember my mom's Indian tacos

just like it was yesterday.

They were so damn good

that they would make me

forget my name.

They would be stacked

from the bottom of my plate

and then they were gone

just like that.

She would make them so good

that every time she made them

all my friends

would come over from the hood.

My mom's Indian tacos

are the best I've ever had.

She makes them big and round

as the fry bread could.

So don't even talk

about them Indian tacos,

cause when you down,

will jump on you like vultures, boy.

Cause that's part of our culture.

Wyatt
West Hills School
Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

I remember my abuelita's tortillas,

soft and fluffy,

made with maiz from backyard corn

or with flour.

Tortillas so good

you'll come back for more

eating them til they're gone.

And next thing you know,

you're soft and fluffy

just like Abuelita's tortillas.

Esteban C.

West Hills School

Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

I try to follow an old family recipe.

I remember those Indian tacos

like yesterday, like yesterday.

I remember going hunting

for that venison with an old 'cushun'.

I remember that venison

sizzling in grease,

that fry bread smell in the air,

those beans on the stove looking good.

Then, I remember my mom

putting beans, venison, cheese, and salad on that Indian fry bread.

These are the things I remember,

the food my people eat.

This food will be forever in my family,

never forgotten.

This is the food of the Pomo.

Marcos
West Hills School
Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

I remember my mom's tacos,

hot and spicy with a Coke on the side.

The way my mom pounds the masa

back and forth in her hands.

Israel C.
West Hills School
Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

I hardly remember anything

about my family.

It's been yeas since I've seen them.

Years since I've tasted

their food in my mouth.

I can't remember what it looked

or smelled like.

All I remember is their names

and how they were to me.

They were my family.

Donald
West Hills School
Bill Churchill, Poet Teacher

 


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