Sometimes when talking to Moriah,
she’ll remind me of her heritage.
Like the time we were going on
about the stale chips in my lunch
and she started describing this breakfast 
her mom and grandma made from scratch.
It had eggs and a sauce but you could use
fresh corn tortillas, chilaquiles,
or fry up stale chips and make migas.
And she would weave the scraps of story together
so that you could smell the tortillas
frying in the pan and you could swear
she seasoned her own molcajete
like cast iron and ground up
tomatoes, onions, garlic,
cumin, black peppercorn, chile powder,
bay leaves, lime and Mexican oregano
(not that Italian stuff)
into a salsa all her own
without much help at all.

And I can barely make pancakes.