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I was never taught in the art of cooking like tita. I sometimes feel ashamed that my connection to food is not like other latin american families. One of the dishes that is closest to my heart is a Peruvian dish, cui. Everytime i eat it,  it takes me back to the same place.

Visiting my family over the summer in peru, my grandmother in the kitchen preparing a meal for a family of 8+. Though i was only about 7 or so, i ate enough for 2 grown men with this dish. My family describes me to others as “una buen comedora” which means a good eater. This is not an insult but something that i hold near and dear to my heart. I, unlike my cousins who are very estranged from our culture often only eating, mac an cheese from a box, white rice and chicken, fast food, pasta with tomato sauce. I was the only child you ate with the adults. I rejected to eat fast food. in peru, alongside my grandmother in the kitchen watching her make chicha, a Peruvian beverage, this purple color is forever stained in my mind. Im hereing the cui sizzling on the pan and she says, “ya” Under her breath and with that, i rush over to the dinner table. Eating before everyone because i ate double than everyone else. The dish served to me cui and the baked potatos diced in half with a liquid gold on top a sauce with a vibrant red, orange and yellow every color of fall poured on top of them with white rice on the side. you could smell the love poured into the dish, every spice added in and every second made preparing it. I finished it all in a matter of minutes, the amount of time she would take to serve everyone else. Everyone sat down to eat and i was given a second bowl, equally as big if not bigger than the first. My family was around me laughing and talking. the sunset peering through our windows. We were not a rich family, but just rich with love. Now when i say i ate cui, the description i gave with mouth-watering, but when i reveal its translation, everyone immediately fills their face with disgust or confusion. Its guinea pig. The food of my memory, the food that i love, and the food that i go back to when i feel disconnected from my roots.
(sorry for typos,)

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I stand in front of my Keurig that was given to me for my birthday waiting for the water to heat up so I can make tea. As the water was heating I put all of the ingredients needed to satisfy me. First, adding a blueberry tea-bag that smelled very sweet, almost like a blueberry pie. Now adding sugar (LOTS of sugar!) that made my fingertips sticky. And lastly, adding a few spoons of honey to accentuate the taste. I set my tea mug under the Keurig setting the cup size to medium to fill up the mug perfectly. The water trickled into the mug, the hot droplets hitting my hand making me flinch my hand back. Once it is filled I mix the contents well in the mug until satisfied. I slightly blow on the tea, cooling it down as I prepare myself for the hot sweetness of my Blueberry Tea. Once I take a sip and swallow the heat instantly warming my body, I hum the heat reaching my fingertips and making my heart jump in happiness.

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Sitting in my grandma's kitchen I realize I’ve been here before the smell of the masa the feel of the banana peels as we spread them out amongst the table, the shiny side always goes up. The smell of spices fills my nose as my grandma stirs together her potion of love, cooking is her expression of her power and as tradition, it is now ours. The sounds of my cousins and family echo through the small apartment, although we are many the apartment still manages to feel large as they settle conversation flowing like a musical.

One by one we head over to the kitchen like when we were young awaiting for my grandma to explain what to do, and just like we were young we take our seat at the table, spread out a banana leaf, shiny side always up, and begin our tradition. The masa always goes first the dried corn paste always making the walls of our tamales making sure we spread it out just enough to be thick, but enough to hold the meat. The next step is always a description, part of our personality as we grow, the Carne hot from the pan and seasoned to perfection, the only thing our tamales are missing.

Like my personality, I love to be extra filling the space with joy and energy, and just like I am I fill my Tamale with extra meat my grandma knows my tricks by now always claiming I put too much but never fixes it because she knows just like me my Tamale will be warm and full. But my grandma’s tamales are perfection her masa spread evenly along the edges of the banana leaf, shiny side up, her meat never seeping over the edge like mine, always filling just enough, and her edges of the parchment folded to perfection, unlike mine as they stick out and unfold.

Tamales are our tradition as much as tamales are our expression like me my tamales are warm and full or like my grandma folded to perfection, but always no matter what the banana leaves remain shiny side up.

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I remember every Christmas and holiday seeing a steaming hot dish of golden-baked mac and cheese. The beautiful hues of the browned breadcrumbs.  The cheesy, creamy, gooey sauce drizzled over the carefully boiled macaroni. The essence of family and holiday happiness in the air. The smells of melted and baked cheeses. The aroma of love mixed in with spices from around the earth. The mixture of people in a room together standing around this source of warmth and love and longing of people we haven't seen in months or years. The way it brings us all together to celebrate people and the holiday.  The way it brings a smile to our faces and a grateful feeling to our stomachs.

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Grilled Cheese.

You fill me with pleasure.

I cannot even begin to measure

How much you mean to me.

Your cheese melts on my tongue

Your bread is toasted just right.
No one makes it quite like my father, or outback steakhouse to be honest

When I pull out the pan and light up the stove

Brush the butter against the steel to sizzle

Put your fluffy white bread onto that steel

Hear the chhh of the pan meeting the bread

Layer on your thin slices of american cheese

Put the other slice of fluffy bread on top

Wait a minute or two

As you watch that bread and cheese that was made by you

Feel your heartbeat as the heat begins to warm you up

Flip your mouth watering grilled cheese to toast the other side

Wait a few more minutes to let that cheese settle

Turn off your oven and let the pans heat die down

As you slide that flavorsome bread onto your plate

And you let your teeth sink into that wonderful bread

Slowly but surely you never regret that delicious taste

Hannah

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Black Forest Cake

The celebration day in our culture

The heat of the oven overwhelms by body

The chopping of the fresh cherries I bought the day before

From the farmers market up the street

Grandma makes it best

But i am making it this year

The dark chocolate produced in west Africa

Made its way in my cake

The smooth and richness to taste

The sweet and light cream

And the moist dark cake

Blend together to make our beautiful tradition

The black forest origins

Found its way in our stomachs

Named after the Schwarzwald mountains

Our heritage in every bite

As it melts with the fresh taste of cherry and chocolate

I find myself full

Longing for just another bite

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Sweet, soft, warm

Freshly baked brownies

Flour floats & chocolate flies

Eggs drop and milk splashes

Sugar sweet and energetic

Into the swirling culmination of flavors

Slowly but surely

To become a smooth mixture

To allow the end of a craving

Of a common heartfelt dessert

With just the slight powdered sugar on top

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Every time I eat my mothers jerk chicken, I think of one of my happiest memories. I think back to when I was swimming in the hot sun with my brother and cousins. It was a great day with lots of laughter and fun. We eventually went inside to go get some lunch. We are starving, so my mom fixes up a plate of jerk chicken and kool aid. It was amazing, it was great to have after all that swimming.

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The smell of meat travels up my nose as I fill to the brim with joy and dread. Reminding myself it’ll all be worth it in the end, I glace over to the kitchen counter to see if my fears are true. They were. The horrific sight of a croc pot on an 8-hour setting. I walk to peek into the dark and terrible black hole inside of the huge chamber of liquid and browning vegetables. It sucks in the beef and peppers as I watch in hunger and agony. My mother sighs at the smell, as though she can’t even help to think about how late into the evening it will be until we finally taste the savory explosion of flavour that is the Croc Pot Roast. The seasoning all in a row on top of the stove, along with the other half of the onion that my mother had previosly chopped into the pot. Both the savory and sweet taste of the happiness and passing time fill my mind and my brain. I can’t wait, but alas, I have to.

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Pomegranate

Cutting into it, juice staining my hands

Feeling the crunch

As my knife cuts the blood red fruit

Down the middle

Sections of ruby seeds separated by a thin white skin

All of them fit together perfectly

Inside a fruit the shape of the sun

The beautiful seeds popping in my mouth.

Tart, earthy and sweet explosions

Each one as good as the last

Until all of it

Is gone.

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The Craving that we all have some times, Mozzarella Cheese is a big part of everyone's lives. It is without doubt the best tasting cheese and the most usable. Its vulnerability to melting, its ability to make other foods taste better, its major dishes, its quality and so much more, make it easily the best cheese. When it is fried though, it can stand alone being one of the best and most heart warming dishes. With warm smooth marinara, garnished with parsley and grated parmesan, it is at its best form. Served usually as a side, but for me it is served as a main course in terms of its quality.

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I am weak, dehydrated and in need of a reboot and there you are my savior. Seeping into the cracks of despair in my soul you replenish life within me. You guide me, support me and advise me on the secret of life. I'll never leave you and I hope you'll never leave me I need you you need me. You give me more happiness than I deserve you make my frown turn upside down. Don't look at the others they mean nothing when you're here. Lead me to a paradise of hydration and water paradise for I am in dire need of your help. You're there when no one else is and I wouldn't change a thing for the world you quench my thirst and fulfill my purpose. I love you water, flowing through my body making me whole again. Your impact is as strong as water breaking dam, don't leave me.

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I’ve always adored the smell and taste of rice with peas. My mother would always make it as a side dish with foods such as baked chicken, or steak, or turkey. The sweet taste of the peas as they broke between my teeth, and immersified by taste buds. I remember watching my mother intensely as she cooked. Writing down notes as she cooked. Asking questions. You start with some oil, enough to cover a small bit of the pot. Then, allow some fried onions, or regular onions to brown. It’ll start to smell good already. Add in some paprika. Paprika’s fiery taste adds to the sweetness of the peas and the plain rice. Now, add in warm water, filling the pot completely. Allow the water to boil, and you should see brown water. It doesn't seem very appetizing at first, but it gets better later. Add in the peas, allowing them to cook. I liked to watch as the peas floated up and down in the pot. Sometimes descending into the bubbly dark ocean they were in, or ascending to the top, where steam gathered in the pot itself, and held within by the lid. Now, you’d pour in the rice gently after straining them. Be careful not to add the rice too quickly, as it could cause the water in the pot to overflow. Now we play the waiting game. My mom and I would begin to clean, and put away dishes and such while the rice cooked. She would always tell me how when you are waiting it is best to clean so that you don't complain later like you always do. It was true, I never enjoyed washing the dishes. I don't think anybody ever has. After the waiting game, you check on the rice. The white color is now completely gone, as the rice appears brown, and the bright green peas show themselves. The water has evaporated now, and completely vanished into thin air. It's ready. A quick easy recipe, but made with the touch of motherly love. Eating together with family is what makes the food so delightful.

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I want to say
That I ate the apples
In the bowl

You may have been
Saving them for another day
But I simply couldn't wait

Crisp, flavorful, crunchy
Green, red, yellow
Sharp, Faint, Sweet

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As I walk into the kitchen, it hits me
Strong smells slap me in the face as I see the pot on the stove
Bold flavors I dream of as the orange sauce covers the delicious, tender chicken
Reminds me of a time of childhood, playing outside in the hot sun, the sounds of cars going by, the birds chirping as my mom calls me for dinner
I dash to the door and I sit down, ready to feast on this amazing food we call chicken tikka masala.