Every Sunday when Cintra visited her grandparents, she’d find her grandmother in the kitchen stirring a pot of noodles. Egg noodles, for soup. Macaroni, for a cheesy casserole. Spaghetti, for her favorite meatball dish. No matter what kind, Cintra would fish one out and slurp it through her lips.
One day she heard her grandmother exclaim, “That’s using your noodle!” She peeked into the kitchen. There stood her grandfather, hatless for once, head bent over the pot, and her grandmother scraping linguini from his scalp into the boiling water.
That night, Cintra feigned a stomach ache and ate oatmeal instead.