I learned to write on the computer playing an MS‒DOS game, right on that black screen, that nowadays a very few people know and it´s a hidden mystery under our computers. The video game consisted of typing the same letters that appear on the screen. From Monday to Friday , the group used to spend about 15 minutes in that. That event stayed in mi memory and with all the romanticism that characterizes me I want to use that word to name this section.
Speaking of romanticism, I want to tell the story of my first day in a kitchen. I was five years old, and although the memories are diffuse, I can say that since those days I´ve always woken up early. It is like a curse, not be able to sleep more no matter that it is Sunday. My parents, who used to work the whole week, did not suffer the same discomfort, tired of all week and their grown‒up life, they used to take advantage of the weekend to sleep a few extra hours.
That Sunday, I woke up and everybody at home remained asleep, including my brother who always took care of me when my parents were working. I recall have passed under the sheets in the middle of my parent´s bodies, they never noticed when I left, neither when I arrived. I heard a strange sound, it was like a monster: it was my stomach snarling strongly.
I remember being taller enough to look at the burners on the stove, I turned the knob that opens the way to the gas and I lit a match close to the burner to ignite it and then regulate the flame (the match burned one of my fingers, leaving a strange sensation on the fingertip). The pan heated after a couple of minutes, I recall crashed the eggs and drop them into the frying pan to cook them. From that moment I have always been self‒sufficient in the kitchen and a hopeless romantic glutton.