Burritos

As if the gods knew how much I miss Anna’s Taqueria, burritos surround me everywhere I go. Burritos, as tall as teenagers and twice as wide, walk beside me on the street, sit with me on the bus, and shop next to me in the bazaar. They move slowly but regally, with the sure bearing that only an ample girth can provide. They are society’s matrons, women above the age of 45, and burrito-hood is the inimitable sign of their contribution and sacrifice.

 Burritos wear pointy-toed black galoshes over thick wool socks and tights. They wear ankle-length sweaters over their long dresses with buttons up the front, and if it’s chilly enough, they’ll wear a giant fuzzy vest and a thick headscarf tucked in to the top of the sweater.

 These women have given birth to four, five, six children. Over time, they have eaten mountains of candy and doughy Uzbek bread. Between their shoulders and their ankles, there is no articulation left in their bodies. This is not looked down upon, as it might be in the land of senior water aerobics and liposuction; on the contrary, the burrito is a revered presence. Her universality makes her this way. Every burrito is your grandmother, and your grandmother is every burrito.

 Yesterday I was a guest at a student’s house and for most of the evening I sat at a table with four jolly burritos. Three of them were sisters and one was a neighbor. We sat on long cushions around a low table on the floor, and when they laughed their bodies would shake all the way down to their legs. They gave me a good-natured ribbing for being unmarried and kicked out of my parents’ house (barbaric!). One of them asked me whether American or Uzbek culture was better. I gave my usual diplomatic answer, that both are good, though different. No no no, come on, she said. Ours is better of course. You leave your grandparents and your parents and all live far away. We all live together. Don’t worry, we’ll find you a husband here.

 I told them my mother’s age, and the burrito next to me asked me to guess hers. Dangerous territory for any woman to venture on to, but especially dangerous given the deceptiveness of a burrito’s appearance. Once a woman dons the burrito mantle, she relinquishes the individuality of her appearance. And wrinkles here come early. I’m constantly told I look like a teenager, while some of my students look like they’re older than I am. I’ve been here for six months; I know this. So while I estimated this particular burrito to be around 75 years old, I said I thought she was sixty. Turns out she was 53.

 After a few hours of talking and languidly eating bread, fruit, salad, candy, and cake, the three guest burritos left, taking their assorted children with them. Getting up was quite an effort, but wheezing, grunting, they hoisted themselves up and said the proper goodbyes. They must have gotten about twenty feet when their hostess burrito, who had previously absented herself from the table, stopped them with alarmed cries. The main dish was about to be served! So they all wheezed back in and plopped down again, contented sighs all around. This is the burrito’s optimal position: her mass supported by pillows, her body solidly sitting or supine within an arm’s length of a table packed with delicious food. Once you have earned burrito status, it’s for the young, spry women to serve you. This is your due for a lifetime of serving the burritos that came before you.

 Sometimes my imagination runs away with me and I picture all the burritos together as a bouquet of weightless balloons, their ankles tied with thin string, rising up en masse and floating above the village, their throaty chuckles echoing off the buildings.