Personal Narrative: Nachos

Kaely Camacho, also known as Ca”Nacho Cheese”, Is someone I was close with a cared very deeply for since my early childhood. In 8th grade, the year 2012, I lost my best friend. This time I couldn’t fix it with a simple “I’m sorry”. It wasn’t expected or even properly explained. On April 13, 2012, my 13-year-old best friend died in a car accident. She had the prettiest blonde hair, and blue eyes that compared to the ocean water.

This is the time when I tried guacamole.This is how I started to like it, and eat it all the time.

There’s nothing I look forward to more than my daily sugar fix: I have an undeniable sweet tooth. Whether my teeth are sunken in a slice of ripe, juicy watermelon, or in a bowl of raspberry gelato, I can't get enough of the taste of sugar. I am almost certain that if you close your eyes and eat something sweet, you can taste a little of the hot sun beating on a Brazilian sugarcane plantation, or of the refreshing water running through the plants.

Being quiet was never easy. During my elementary school days, I was told to speak up and that continued into middle school. On most school open houses, my parents would get the message that I needed to participate more. Although this may be true, I am completely different at home. I was loud. I was foolish. I always found a way to provide laughter in the house, but I didn’t know where I stood outside the house. I wasn’t quiet because I wanted to, it was because I was scared of the reactions. My worst fear in class was being called on since I didn’t know whether my response would be good or bad. To add on, I always knew what the other person was thinking. I was always good at reading into tones and expressions. Everything changed in the eighth

I walked into the kitchen, and laid eyes onto the limestone kitchen counter where ingredients lined up as the sunlight beamed through the window, highlighting the upcoming meal. I did my excitement dance as I imagined tasting the mouthwatering, delightful sensational, baked macaroni and cheese. Baked macaroni and cheese is not just your ordinary macaroni in a cheese sauce. Although not as creamy as the stovetop version, baked macaroni and cheese has a different texture with an addictive, cheesy, stretchy and crispy topping that leaves me begging for more.

A time when I tried something new was when I tried a burrito at a Mexican restaurant. Before I ate a burrito I never did like Mexican food, because I didn’t like trying new things. Ever since I ate that burrito, I had loved burritos because I tried something new.

On a drizzly Sunday evening my first summer in New York City, I was walking in Chelsea when a man rode up beside me on a bike. I really don’t want to bother you, he began, a baleful look in his brown eyes, but this ridiculous thing just happened to me. He explained that the costumes he had designed for a Broadway show had accidentally been locked in his apartment, and he had lost his keys. He just needed to borrow a little money so he could get in touch with his assistants and sort the whole thing out.

“Sweetie, you know what goes on at those parties,” Mom says, as I begin to pack my bag for Gramma’s house. I turn around and begin to make my dinner of the one and only... Mac and Cheese. My friend Keesha invited me to a party this weekend that all of her friends are coming to and then, some more that that. I really wanted to go but when I saw the look on Mom’s face when I told her that I wanted to go, her eyes looked sharp as ice. She doesn’t like me going to popular events, like a party. She won’t even let me go to the park by myself because she is scared I will be irresponsible and get hurt. I notice the water start to boil and I suddenly am snapped back to reality. I put the Mac and Cheese into a plastic container and grab a fork. I run upstairs and grab my phone and charger. I tell my Mom

pizza was beautifully cooked on a crispy crust that didn't sag in the middle when he picked it up. The most memorable dish was Vince’s gnocchi; a plate full of light-as-air, tiny pillows of fresh potato goodness, smothered in a mouthwatering, rich and creamy gorgonzola sauce. Vince had never tasted anything so divine. It was delicious. The men savored their well deserved, exquisite dinner and wine engaged in happy conversation about the day’s events. Stan was relieved to be away from the sadness which encompassed his home in California and Vince was grateful to have Stan’s companionship and moral support.

Tonight the wind felt unusual. It wasn’t as cold as it had been the day before, nor was it as warm as the summer months that passed by. Tonight it felt cool and smooth. It caressed my bare skin, exposed by the loose t-shirt I wore. Tonight the wind did not howl and shriek like it should’ve. It was a low, rumbling sound, easing my nerves. Tonight, the wind was just right.

The quality of dinner didn’t really matter, though. Phillip’s mind was a million miles away as he sat across from her. Thoughts on the upcoming Saturday absorbed everything, every impulse, every fiber of him as he stared blankly and hypnotically at his plate of untouched food. He may have stayed that way for hours if his mother hadn’t asked him, “How was your day, dear?” a question that garnered no immediate response and had not managed to break his reverie even after the second time around. Krista then repeated herself a third time receiving the same silent treatment from Phillip. It was only then when Cary had raised his voice that Phillip finally snapped out of his somnambulism.

It's like this you see, Harold, my husband, came back from the working men's club a bit more inebriated than usual for a Friday night, due to it being his birthday. He had a sudden pang of hunger and decided to cook himself a few chips.

On Tuesday evening, Margaret prepared a mouth-watering dinner complete with candles, roses, a white tablecloth and cloth napkins. She relaxed while waiting for Andrew. Arriving home, pleased with dinner, he made a drink and sat down to wait for Jeremy.

“My, my, my! Isn’t it a wonderful day Raymond?” said Walter as he carefully pulled up his car on the small driveway. Standing up, he brushed away any dirt on his nude suit and wing-tipped Oxfords. Besides Walter, Raymond hummed a small reply. Walter, content, continued on out to the quaint diner slumped in the middle of the paved road.

I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror hoping to see a beautiful, exciting face staring back. Nope, just me. I hate my boring, long, brown hair, boring freckles dotting my nose that make me look ten, and my weird gray eyes that made me look like more of a freak. I look about thirteen when really, today is my sixteenth birthday. I showered quickly, threw on a gray t-shirt that said: “The characters may be fictional, but the tears are not,” I gave a pair of jeans that littered my floor the sniff test, put them on, and headed to the kitchen for breakfast.