MPitS | West Hills Community School |
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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