The Pupusa Ring

I have experienced the perfect Friday night.  It happened about a month ago now, after a grueling week of my summer session.  It was nine o'clock, and my housemate and I were hungry.  We decided to venture five blocks down the road to Scoops, the gourmet ice cream shop without a sign where you order a "single scoop" and receive two, an overt act of generosity every time.  When they’re open, you can recognize it by the sample spoon art in the window; when they've run out of ice cream, they pull down one of those metal rolling storefront gates that look like garage doors, and you would never know what’s behind it.  Last time I was there, I ordered lemon basil and blueberry rose water.

The defining moment came on our walk home, however.  A Hispanic couple had set up a small street pupusa stand with a stove under a canopy, and the wife was frying them on a stove right before our eyes.  We quickly joined the small crowd seated in the warm cloak of light and placed our order.  We sat there for fifteen minutes, just watching her cook, taking in the comfort of the pupusa community.  A family sat to our right, the bossy girl teaching her little brother how to dance to the music from their mom’s phone.  One couple retreated into the darkness to eat in their truck, but more stepped into the circle of light to bring back dinner for their families.  Krystina and I smiled at the dancing kids, listening to the constant background sizzle of the grill.  When the couple called us forward for our food, she chatted with them for a minute in easygoing Spanish, while I stood beside her, mute but grateful.  As we picked up our paper bags to leave, the husband smiled and said in English, “Have a good night.  See you soon.”