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.

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

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

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

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.

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,)