Lemon Yogurt.

It was the sight of the refrigerator. It acted as a visual calendar of how close my daddy was to pay day. Two days away from pay day, and it was nearly empty. On one particular afternoon, I opened the refrigerator and saw nothing. Nothing. Strike that. My mom kept a box of Arm&Hammer baking soda (It keeps things fresh you know…) and it sat like an old man on a porch step.

What's for lunch, I asked. I always asked that question. Which is why I weighed more than my dad as kid, but that's a different blog post.

Mom rummaged through the pantry. She moved around the government-issued peanut butter and pinto beans, but she was stuck. We were stuck. Then she said what she always said, We're gonna pray. My mother's faith is astounding. Now, but especially as a child. Perhaps it's because I was a kid and life was magnified when you stand four feet tall, but nevertheless, it was astounding. Even when we had nothing, she believed. That's all.

We got on our knees and prayed. No less than an hour later, a neighbor appeared on our doorstep with a bag of eggs and a crate of lemon yogurt. Valentina explained in Spanish her husband worked at a cafeteria and they were going to throw this away, pointing to the dairy products. My mom hugged her. And we ate too much lemon yogurt that day.

A few days ago in Chicago, I asked my mom to say a small prayer for me. She replied, “I don't believe in small prayers, I believe in big prayers for small things.” This is true and whenever I see lemon yogurt, I'm reminded of this fact.