Food Truck Memories

A few weeks ago I wrote about a misunderstanding at a local eating establishment. It hurt my soul to think how cruel the world is for people who don’t fit the neuro-typical mold. Our dining experience this past Friday has restored a little bit of my faith in humanity. We wanted to get pastelillos (empanadas) from a local Salvadoran food truck. The plan was to take our food home to eat it. When we placed our order we were told they didn’t have any pastelillos. So, Chica Marie and I ordered papusas and Love Bug settled on yellow rice. While we were waiting for our food two men came to eat. My kids started talking to the men, asking them questions. The men were charmed by my little chatty Cathy’s and answered them back. The men spoke to the children in English and Spanish while we conversed in Spanish. At one point, one of the men shared his salad with the kids because they were curious why he only put salt and lime juice on it. My kiddos refused to leave when our food was ready, so we sat and ate with our new friends. The woman who owned the food truck came out to talk to us as well. She explained how delighted she was to see non-Hispanic kids enjoying her food. They even helped Love Bug make a limeade drink with his water, some limes and sugar. No one was bothered when Love Bug got a little loud or used his hand to stir his concoction. No one was upset that Chica Marie asked a million questions and butchered the Spanish words she tried to pronounce. It was actually the best dinner out of the house in memory. I was so grateful for the inclusion and kindness by the people we didn’t know. The sense of family and community is one of the things I love most about the Hispanic culture. But, for a momma with “difficult” kids, the simple act of compassion was the greatest gift.      

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