Sometimes my words don’t do another’s loved one and their food justice. This is one of those times. Christina Vigil-Thompson had written this very moving tribute to her grandmother. After I read it,  I printed it and pasted it in my journal. I nicknamed her writing the “three stages.” It reminded me of why I started this blog–not to wow anyone with recipes but to remind us all that food is often the story of our memories.

So here are Christina’s own words as I combine two of her writings–first ‘THE THREE STAGES’ and then the food and story of her grandmother, Arnulfa Gonzales Vigil. Her recipe is one that evokes not only her grandmother’s kitchen but the stories of her life.  These stories ensure that the third stage will never be met. Enjoy and if your eyes ‘make water’ like mine did reading this just remember that is the seasoning of life.

THE THREE STAGES by Christina Vigil-Thompson

They say there are three stages of dying. The first is when your heart ceases to beat & the last breath is drawn. The second, when the body is lowered to the ground. The third & final death is when there is no one to speak your name. I will fight off her third death as long as I am able.

This obit represents the last page of the last chapter in my grandmother’s life but it’s here in the epilogue that she lives on.

This obit tells you when her life ended. It doesn’t tell you how she lived it or who she was. It doesn’t tell you that when I came home, soaked from getting caught in the rain, she would dunk me in a tub to keep me from getting sick. It won’t tell you that when my brother died, I got home & collapsed in her arms. She sat in a chair, my head in her lap, cradling me until I could breath. It won’t tell you about the estafiate tea she swore would cure you of anything. It won’t tell you about her devotion, her integrity or her love of orange slices & pansies. Or even how she grew roses or only wore Gloria Vanderbilt cologne. It won’t tell you about the night before she died, in a lucid moment when she told me I was beautiful & that she loved me. It won’t tell you that she was my touchstone & that not a day goes by I don’t carry her with me.

She wasn’t the Alzheimer’s that robbed her. She wasn’t the cancer that advanced. She wasn’t the pneumonia. She was my any and everything.

She’s not in the words of her obit or in any pictures I could post. She isn’t any of those things. She is in my every heartbeat & every breath.

I celebrate her life, not by laying flowers on her grave, or wishing her happy birthday on a social media site. I celebrate her by sharing her memories, by saying her name, by never, ever forgetting. She lives on because I will fight her Third Death telling her stories with every word I have. I will not forget. 

Her name is Arnulfa Gonzales Vigil. She is my grandmother

Weenies en salsa by Christina Vigil-Thompson

My grandparents were amazing, my grandfather working multiple jobs to make ends meet and my grandmother working miracles to keep everyone fed, clothed and in school.  And it worked.  Some of the things she did to save money were the odd little things she did in the kitchen.

My grandmother was a proud woman, but not too prideful. I remember when she would go to the grocery store and negotiate a lower price on fruits and vegetables just past their freshness date & bones “for the dog”.  We’d go home and she would cut the bruised parts out of the vegetables and boil the bones for soup. Another thing she did was make weenies en salsa, a recipe born of necessity after my grandfather was laid off his primary job. Years later, she was still making it, usually Saturday morning, served with eggs and retried beans.