Elena Fernández Collins 6/30/21 6:39AM
The smell of onions, garlic, and cumin cling to the edges of memories of my childhood, a kitchen hazy with flavor and the upright, focused figure of my father recreating his mother’s recipes for me. Somewhere, my mother is laughing at him for not letting her near the kitchen; she’s a consummate baker, but cooking is beyond her (she has even managed to burn white rice). When I’m too young to use a gas stove or a large knife, my father lets me help by smashing plantains for tostones and squashing the seasoned meat for fritas. When I’m old enough to handle dangerous objects, my father hovers behind me and constantly turns down the flame, or reminds me to not cut towards myself, muchacha, no te quiero llevar al hospital.
Read this delightful article HERE.