Blessed buñelos

“Tatan mami na gaige hao gi langhet …”

Nåna takes the clump of yam

and begins processing the root:

pulling off all of the small fibers,

dusting off the earth, and slicing

off the rough kåyus skin.

“Si yu’us unginegue Maria bula hao gracia …”

Dad collects a bunch of tangantangan

sticks, snapping them into small sections.

He chucks the chunks of chamoru charcoal

into the flame, under the wok full of oil.

The oil is crackling with bubbling eagerness.

“Umatuna i tata, i lahi-ña, yan i espiritu …”

Mom just finished rinsing the naked yams.

She pulls out the huge Tupperware - the one

we use for baotismu, fandango, lisåyu, matai

and where she bathes the babies.

She dumps the clean yams into the basin.

“Finenina na ha’åni …”

Auntie, auntie, and auntie gather around

the basin with their flat graters in one and

a clump of yam in the other. All together,

the mothers begin to ekses the yams into

a viscous pool of liquefied starch.

“Si Jose yan si Maria …”

The children and manamko’ sing along.

Meanwhile, bags of tapioca from Thailand

and sugar - ginen ekkua’ manu - pour

into the pool. A continuous flow of folding

and folding makes the mixture malleable.

“Umageftuna …”

The children and manamko’ put their hands

together and sing the closing song. The older

kids head to the outside kitchen to fill up foam

cups with corn soup and åhu, while mom

pulls out the golden brown buñelos.

Before my Nåna passed, I would

fly back home for Christmas break.

Nine days of prayers and hymns to

honor Niño Jesus, nine days of

eating, and nine days that began with

“Gi na’an i tata, i lahi-ña, yan i espiritu …”