As I write this, I can almost smell the kitchens of my childhood—those familiar aromas drifting through the streets of my hometown as I walked home from school. The spices, the sizzling, the sound of families gathering around their tables. Kids laughing in courtyards. Grandparents chatting over simmering pots. All those pieces of daily life stitched together into a kind of edible soundtrack.
Once home, I’d finish my homework and then it was time for dinner: our daily ritual to catch up on our day. Both my parents worked, but their schedules aligned just enough for us to eat together most nights. On weekends, we shared meals with our grandmothers. We’d end the evenings with sweet breads and hot chocolate before heading home—part sugar rush, part insurance policy to falling asleep in the car.
My paternal grandmother lived closer, so we’d spend hours playing with our cousins in her courtyard while the meal came together in her kitchen. Both of my grandmothers were incredible cooks, each with her own style. My Abuela Angela often requested me in the kitchen—not to scold me, but to teach me how to prepare my favorite foods. She wasn’t expressive with words, but she didn’t need to be. Her love came through her hands, through her recipes, through every single thing she placed on a plate.
My grandmothers, my parents, and so many others in my family shaped the food lover I am today. Their lessons traveled with me as I grew up, moved away, and built a life far from home. Their flavors became part of my identity—always there, always grounding me.
And now, with a few more years (and spices) under my belt, my culinary world has only expanded. My taste buds roam increasingly far from home, yet they never forget where they started. Living in the U.S. Midwest means some ingredients are harder to find, but it also sparks creativity—figuring out how to coax familiar flavors from what’s available.
I vividly remember the first time I tried Indian curry. The blend of spices, peppers, and toasted aromatics pulled me straight back to my grandmother’s adobos. It made me wonder: how can two distant culinary worlds create flavors that feel like cousins?
The answer, of course, lives in our shared human history. Food and traditions cross borders. Scarcity forces innovation. Climate, colonization, trade routes, and migration leave their fingerprints on kitchens everywhere. Grinding seeds, toasting spices, building sauces—these are techniques you’ll find in kitchens from Mesoamerica to South Asia. I’m not claiming that mole came from curry, or curry from mole. Indigenous cooks in Mesoamerica were grinding chiles and seeds long before colonization, and curries existed long before that. What I am saying is this: when we stay curious, food reveals how connected we’ve always been.
Because food has a way of inviting everyone to the same table—and making us all feel at home.
Mesa Confessions: I’ll admit it… I absolutely judge the harmony of a relationship based on what happens in the kitchen. If a dish fails spectacularly, a tiny, superstitious part of me wonders if the universe is trying to send a message. What can I say? Some people read tarot; I read food.
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