By Richa Anand
“Suppa time, chicas!”
I walk through the halls of our small little home, toward the kitchen. My nose immediately fills with the smell of marinara sauce and pasta. I find that I am picking my feet up quicker each time I step closer, my stomach eager to fill itself.
Course one: a sizzling plate of penne pasta covered in heaps of red sauce that gives the giant bowl of pasta a look closer to soup than to penne. Three large scoops are carefully placed onto my plate, creating a small mountain. I stare down in horror, wondering how I’m going to be able to tackle that much pasta.
Course two: boiled potatoes. I wonder how people eat plain boiled potatoes as a course for a meal, but I push my questions aside and consume what is given to me.
Course three: potato purée. My stomach is starting to feel like it expanded in each direction and is taking over my body. As this new version of potatoes makes its way onto my plate, I plead, “No mas por favor. No mas.” My request is rejected by a simple grunt telling me to be quiet and eat my food. By some God-given power, I find the ability to force it down my throat.
I waddle my way back to our bedroom in amounts of pain I didn’t think were possible. I plop myself onto my tiny bed in our overheated room and wonder how I’m supposed to eat that much food for the rest of the trip. Will I always be in this much pain? The food, although so delicious, makes me crave fruits and vegetables more than I ever have. I wonder how Spanish people stay so thin and fit and pray to that I won’t end up having to waddle back to America.
This is Valencia 