When our tía wasn’t pat-pat-patting masa to make sopes, or when she wasn’t zapateando, her heels ta-tapping and za-zazzing! on the kitchen floor (a luxury of living on the ground floor, no one to complain other than maybe mole people), or when she wasn’t at church praying for Doña This’s health or for Doña That’s daughter to come to her senses and leave that bueno para nada, desgraciado, cholo of a boyfriend of hers—when she wasn’t doing any of that, our tía was at our house, watching the latest episode of Teresa with us, helping our mom cook pozole or tamales or enchiladas, threading conspiracy theories into our heads.

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