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By Marco A. Vasquez

After mentioning to Mama
that, on my day off, I drove
into East L. A. to eat what has been
called the best burrito in the nation,
she hasn’t stopped slaving over the stove,
stuffing me with an endless
combination of tortillas stuffed with her
own creations, smiling as she sets
the plates before me, seeing how I react
to every bite.

But, when I told my dad
that I paid twenty-two bucks
for a shot of some premium tequila
at a classy hotel lobby bar in Downtown
the other night—hoping he would allow
me a few samples from his decades old
tequila collection—he just shrugged his
shoulders—dismissing me with a flick
of his wrist—and called
me a pendejo.

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