I know he won’t care that my family has less than his, that we’re immigrants, that there are four generations living in one house. That’s not why I’m hesitating.
And my family won’t care that he’s not Latino. They’ll be welcoming and happy to meet him. I’m not hesitating because of them.
I actually don’t know why I’m hesitating.
I pick up the phone and respond.
Me: Obvio que voy. ¿Puedo llevar a mi novio también?
The response is immediate.
Mamá: ¡Sí! Todos son bienvenidos. ¡Estamos ansiosos por conocerlo!
I smile at her excitement to meet him. Our house has always been welcome to all. My parents love hosting, often having friends over for dinner.
Now, all I have to do is ask Roman.
***
Roman enters the kitchen after working all day and going to the gym, and groans.
“Sunshine, what smells so good?” I can hear the excitement in his voice.
“I made empanadas and ají sauce,” I explain, excited to share more of my culture with him.
He moans, holding his stomach.
“I was going to shower and change before dinner but change of plans. If they’re ready, let’s eat now,” he says, already grabbing two plates from the wooden cabinet.
“Alright, héroe. We can eat now, even though it’s only five-thirty in the afternoon,” I tease him.
He makes himself a plate, placing twelve empanadas on it. The pile he makes with them is ridiculous. I try to stifle a laugh at his large appetite, but I knew this about him. It’s why I made four dozen. He’s a big boy, I know he needs a lot to fuel him.
By the time we sit down, he’s wolfed down two.
“Fuck, sunshine. These are amazing. One of my favorite things you’ve made so far,” he tells me after swallowing his fourth. “But please know, you don’t ever have to cook for me. Don’t get me wrong, no one can cook like you. I could live off your food. But you’re not my servant. You’re my girlfriend. And I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to do things for me,” he tells me.
His words fill my heart to the brim. He’s perfect.
“I love cooking. Especially for you. Truly, I do. Cooking is something that brings me great joy. It reminds me of cooking with Mamá and Abuela as a little girl. I love sharing that with you,” I explain.
“Okay,” he says then shoves another one in his mouth whole. “Did your Abuela or your Mamá teach you how to make these? I need to know who to write my thank you card to,” he tells me with a smirk.
And it’s the perfect segway.
“Abuela showed me. These are the Colombian way to make them. They’re a popular dish all over Latin America. I think the Spaniards taught us how to make them. But each country differs a little. We use cornmeal instead of wheat flour. Also, they’re typically a snack or appetizer, but I made them a little bigger so we could have them as a meal. I thought you’d like them.”
“Thank you, Abuela,” he mutters then shoves another one in his mouth.
“Speaking of my family, I’m going to visit them next weekend for Carmen’s birthday. I was wondering if you wantedto come with me? You’re invited. Full disclosure, we’d be there for the whole weekend. And it’s in Worcester, so it’s about an hour and a half away by train. Don’t feel like you have to come, but I’d love if you did. They’d love for you to come too. They’re excited to meet you.” I glance down, not wanting to meet his eyes when he turns me down.
“Sunshine, that sound amazing. I’d love to come.” He reaches out and holds my hand. “And don’t worry about the train. I’ll drive us.”
I’m so excited, I jump from my seat, round the table, and launch into his arms. He catches me in the hug and pulls me in.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I chant.
“Of course, Cecilia. I can’t wait to meet them.” He kisses my hair as he says it.
