Those Sundays I’ll never see again, when I would repeat the same story. We’d arrive in the village at about twelve, my grandad would give a cheeky smile at having us there for another Sunday. My grandma, stressed because there were so many of us, and because of the food and other stuff that couldn’t wait. And, as always, there I was asking the same question, “Grandma, what’s for lunch?” And almost always I got the same response, “Ahh Mr. Questions, Russian salad because you take so long to get here from the bar that the paella goes bad. Now get out the way, there’s stuff to do.” And I went sulking to the living room, because it was the meal I hated again. I didn’t stay angry for long because I’d find something else to do. But she’d repeat “That’s the last time I make soup, this kid’s too spoiled.” And more of the same until the following Sunday. A long time has passed, and with life’s paradoxes, now I do like that meal, but it’s not made by her anymore. I’d give so much to be that sulky kid again and have her there. This time I wouldn’t go and find something else to do. And we’d live the summers again when everybody was around. Because you want to grow up, but then you do and nothing’s the same. And suddenly Russian salad becomes your favorite meal.