Sundays on Del Amo street, in “La Rana”
It was a typical summer day in 1999 in Torrance, California as the smooth notes of R.E.M played in the car as we turned down Del Amo street. To some, Del Amo was just a street name. To others, Del Amo was “La Rana”, the territory of a historical Los Angeles gang. To me, Del Amo was the home of my father and grandparents, a place that taught me the meaning of family, culture, community, and Sunday Dinner.
The Sunday drives from Long Beach to Torrance always felt like they took an eternity. As we made a right hand turn on the street, I was greeted with the familiarity of all that defined Del Amo to that of a 10 year old; cute dogs running loose in the streets, a line of kids outside an ice cream truck reaching up for their Pink Panther popsicles sticks, a sea of men in white tank tops congregating in the neighborhood basketball court, and Chuey… a Del Amo local known to spend his days wandering the streets busy in conversation… with himself.
As we got closer to the house, we saw her sitting on the patio bench having a glass of Pinot Grigio while she waited for us. “HI GRANDMA!” I cheered as I hopped out of the van running to give her a hug. “Hi, Sweetie! How are you! Come inside and let me fix you up a snack.” My mom and siblings followed, along with a loud “HEYY MOOMM” as my dad danced up the driveway excited to make his presence known.
We made our way through the house to find our grandpa, picture-perfect in his favorite spot, doing his favorite thing - drinking a Coors Light while watching sports on his wide screen TV. He was a man of few words with a warmth and spirit that could leave a lasting imprint on a stranger. “Hey Missy, want a Coke out of the back fridge? While you’re at it, can you crush my can?” he said to greet me. After a long hug, I grabbed his can and ran out the back door in excitement. I popped it in his nifty contraption and watched it slide through the hole while I pulled the handle to smash it into oblivions, watching it fall into a bucket of flattened aluminum casualties. “Coooooool”. He knew I loved crushing those cans.
After I grabbed my ice-cold Coke, I walked back into the house to find Grandma setting out appetizers on the coffee table. It was always a jar of cheese dip, canned bean dip, and a bag of Fritos; a junk food delicacy I’ve yet to retire in my adult life. The family sat around the coffee table to snack while Grandpa switched back and forth between football and wrestling. “Hey Missy, look, it’s wrestling. Do your thing!” my sister exclaimed. Without hesitation, I stood up tall and proud, cleared my throat, and summoned the deepest chords I could project out of my 10-year-old body. “LET’S GET READY TO RUUMMMMBLLEEEE!”. The room snickered as I popped back down to grab another bite of dip.
While my mom, grandma and sister got dinner prepared in the kitchen, I headed out back to rummage around the yard and look for the black cat named Sara. I spotted my brother lurking in the shadows engulfed in smoke, as always up to no good. He yelled at me to buzz off, and with that, I went along my merry way.
I followed Sara around the yard, passing the strawberry bush and the giant cement light pole my grandpa dragged into the yard as some new-age garden décor. I leaped to grab the end of Sara’s tail and she jetted across the yard hopping on top of the jacuzzi lid. My grandma loved her jacuzzi, and so did I. Every Sunday Dinner I looked forward to lifting up the lid to see my reflection in a pool of blue, feel the warm steam on my face, and the smell of chlorine that seemed so specific to my grandma. As soon as I fell into a mesmerized whirlpool trance, I heard those three special words shouted out from a distance.
“Dinner is ready!”
I walked back into the house to find our guest count tripled. It was very common for visitors to come and go from my grandparent’s house, often without notice and often without knocking. None of these visitors were blood-related, but they were family, and they made sure you knew it. “Mija, how are you? You’ve gotten so big! Come say hi to your cousin Michael”. I didn’t have a cousin named Michael, but I did when I visited Del Amo street.
As I made my way to the kitchen, my stomach growled as I inhaled the aromas of a good ol’ fashion Mexican dinner. Juicy carnitas meat, warm corn tortillas, refried pinto beans, Mexican rice, and salsa. My grandma was not your typical Mexican lady. The majority of the food was rarely made from scratch, but she sure did know how to throw a solid Sunday Dinner, with a solid menu, and a solid guest list.
I sat down at the dining table alongside my parents and siblings. Grandma always ate last and spent most of her time ensuring everyone was happy and well-fed, including my grandpa who she served in his spot, on his couch, in front of his TV, Coors Light in hand. Our neighborhood guests scattered across every room in the house, chatting away with a beverage in hand, grabbing themselves a plate once the immediate family had been served. The neighborhood kids ran rampant through the hallways, often finding themselves in the spare backroom where Grandma kept all the toys for us kids. The house was loud, it was vibrant, and it was special.
None of these details really resonated when I was a kid because it was just my normal, or more so, what I understood normal to be when I visited my grandparent’s house. But looking back as an adult, our Sunday Dinners were truly a treasure, a treasure not possible without my grandparents. The two were one in the same, priceless, precious, and unique. With the passing of my grandparents came the passing of Sunday Dinners, but the memories remain equally vivacious in my heart. Our Sunday Dinners were spent with family, friends, neighbors, and strangers, all congregated as one, on Del Amo street, in “La Rana”.
By Melissa Herrera
Melissa is a writer, live music lover, and the host & producer of The Sisterhood of the Bottomless Mimosa podcast. Check out her work at @mimosasisterhood and www.mimosasisterhood.com.