Cataracts And Colliodial Silver

GOLDEMBERG

Chepén was born in Peru, 1945, and resides in New York since 1964. He has published three novels, two collections of short stories, thirteen of poetry and three plays, among them Chepén to Havana (1973), Life installment of Don Jacobo Lerner (1978), Man-of-way (1981), Time to Time (1984), The Book of Scripture (1989), Life Spot (1991 ), Mysteries (1996), The Big Book of Jewish America (1998), Hotel AmériKKa (2000), Peruvian blues (2001), The Name of the Father (2001), Knockout (2003), The Royal Cemetery (2004) , Life is the river (2005), No Man's Land (2006), Book of Changes (2007) and blue monkeys in Times Square (2008). Has completed a new novel, Remember the scorpion, and a children's book, Guess which letter, written in tandem with his grandson than twelve years Sasha Reiter. His work has been translated into several languages \u200b\u200band published in numerous magazines and anthologies in Latin America, Europe and the United States. He has received several awards and honors. In 2001 his novel Life installment of Don Jacobo Lerner was selected by a distinguished group of international critics and writers, organized by the National Yiddish Book Center in the United States as one of the 100 most important works of Jewish literature world the last 150 years. Currently, Isaac Goldemberg is Distinguished Professor of Hostos Community College of The City University of New York, where he directs the Institute of Latin American Writers and the International Journal of Culture Hostos Review.

EASTER MASS

At that time I was six and the only food I liked was my grandmother Jesus, a true artist in the kitchen. Prodigious hand. Witch. My mom and I lived in his house along with his grandfather, plus my twelve guys, all brothers and sisters of my mother. So with so many mouths to feed, plus the almost pathological stinginess of my grandfather, my grandmother had to juggle to keep food in the house missing. So had his yard where he raised chickens, guinea pigs and rabbits. I helped in the kitchen grinding him chili and coriander rice nit picking him, he fanned the fire, brought her water jar and he ran errands. And more than once I saw the slaughter, with accurate hand and a smile, a chicken or a rabbit, as if God had put in his yard for our livelihood. Anything was a delicacy, but his specialty was chicken stew. A true delight. Intoxicating. We prepared simple, its rice and potatoes, but with a flavor that everyone in the house attached to their gear witch. I still remember, after almost fifty years, what was, for me, their last stew.
was another day of Holy Week. At about eleven o'clock, my grandmother announced I was going to prepare stew for lunch. I was preparing to help her, but she told me to go to church and not return, for the world, until lunchtime. The few hours of the Mass I was mouth watering. The whole church smelled of pepper, to cilantro. I began to feel something strange, my head was spinning. I thought that the Christ of the cross wings came out and I heard the shriek of a rooster. I ran out of the church and returned home. All were already seated at the table. Ate ecstasy, as transported to a kind of paradise. I ate slowly, smack rice with potatoes, savoring every bite, praying to myself to not emptied my plate.
In this I heard a click. It was his grandfather, who, licking his lips, sighing said: "Damn, how good he had been the lame!"
food in my stomach returned to the plate. I nailed my eyes on my grandmother and she returned a look of stone, ordering me to contain the tears. The lame was my chicken. My pet. My leg of the soul. Almost my brother. All because he said the lame limped on the right leg, but his name was Jesus. The name is what got me to honor my grandmother. And just by coincidence, we ate at Easter. Years later, my grandmother Jesus right leg was amputated.

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