ArcaMax

There was a running joke with my in-laws that a compliment on cooking would be, "Well, now you can get married." This started after I began collecting the most exotic peppers at my Mexican grocery store, names I had never even heard of before, and threw them together in a blender with boiling water, chicken bouillon, and some cross-border, gifted pebble-like peppers brought by tias. My salsa, which I never ate, left my father-in-law gasping and nodding approvingly.

Informally, I started calling it Cassie Cocina Mexicana, a play on the word "almost" in Spanish, "casi." I figured I had to incorporate some components of Mexican cooking for my Mexican husband, but unfortunately, the most authentic cooking I do is when I see three-digit temperatures, I pat the wrinkles from my house dress and tell the house at large that I am going to make a caldo.

Heat? No, it's soup weather. Let's get that cauldron out.

Another staple I've tried to master is the subtlety of the simple, the fideos. It's tomato sauce and 30-cent noodles, but really, it's the heart of making do with what you have.

We've had some extra neighborhood kiddos flitting in and out of the house this summer. I've balanced wanting to be That House with growing up in a home that was a hermitage. Maybe that's a bit of a hyperbole, but my parents didn't make many friends as they moved every few years, my mother was an immigrant, and I didn't have any cousins.

I lived in a tomb, but had heard about That House in American folklore. The house where there were unending popsicles, a wood-paneled den with a foosball table, a mom who was relaxed about doors swinging open, and a father milling about in the yard, drinking light beer while mowing for hours. I tried focusing on that golden-hour imagery as four ten-year-olds ran screaming through the house, but the intrusive desire for a den I didn't have poked through. Each squeal in high-pitched joy slipped me further away from that relaxed mom archetype. But, as I focused on cutting the onions for the fideos, I kept the mantra, 'That House, That House, THAT House.'

As I was chopping, the noodles toasted in butter in a pan. I'd go back to stir, then back to the onions and listen to NPR snippets I could hear between the yells of "flashbang" and laughter and "not fair." When the edges of the small shells turned a light brown and the onion I threw in began to sweat, I chucked an eight-ounce can of tomato sauce in, then filled the can full with water twice. Then the chicken bouillon al gusto. Spoiler: There's a lot of gusto in our house.

My son inhaled the fideos hot, holding the bowl in his hands, teetering it on shelf ledges with ownership when it became too hot as he strategized the next game. One boy sat briefly at the table and commented about fideos always being best from their mom; I agreed while he shoveled in a few bites before chasing my son. Another boy accepted the bowl but left it on the table as he snuck away to play.

His sister sat down next to me. She wanted to tell me about how they recently moved from another state. It involved a bit more darkness than a bowl of noodles can cure, but maybe the listening softened that season of her life. She finished the noodles, thanked me, and put the dishes in the sink as I asked her.

The squeals picked back up, and I, picking up the rest of the dishes, thanked our house.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Copyright 2025 Creators Syndicate Inc.