Las calabazas

Allí estan, las calabazas. Cocinados en su jugito, como los hacian los ancianos, nuestros antepasados por miles de años.

And that's how it went. The squash I grew up with, eating so much of, and liking despite the faces I made as a young child because it wasn't cool to like vegetables.

My great grandma used to cook and cook and cook. There was always a pot of caldo, y tortillas recien hechas, at her house. If it was holiday time, there were tamales, and probably a turkey somewhere.

I remember all my great grandmothers and grandmas for their cooking. It wasn't until fairly recently that I began to "surpass" them in flavors, and only because my life experiences had taken me all over the world, experiences they could not have, but they were the ones who taught me anyway without ever having to say much.

My great grandma used to make calabazas, easy. Cut up some squash, onions, tomatoes, corn, a bit of salt. Then drop some grated cheese in there, roll up some fresh tortilla, and that was dinner. I had that so much growing up, sometimes with a side of beans. Sweet, simple, and nourishing, especially during the winter months where the cold of the desert can be unforgiving late at night.

Food is tied to emotion. That's why I love it so much, that's why I cook it so much. Everything I make is to create memories, to relive old ones, to aspire to future ones, and to be present in the moment, all at once.

It makes me think of all my firsts. The first time I tasted well water in Mexico, and never having tasting water that fresh and sweet in my life. Wishing I could cook with and drink that water forever. The first time I had a fish steamed in leaves from the Amazon, the first time I had a digestive biscuit in London, the first time I had a proper miso soup my host mom had made, the first time I had a ripe dragonfruit that made my mouth water, the first time I had peaches in Texas that were the right juiciness and sweetness, the first time I had wakame in soup, the first time I tried Tsushima rock salt, the first time I had kimchi in Korea, the first time I had blue pozole, the first time I drank pinole, the first time I tasted really good wine, the first time I taught my baby sister to make cookies, the first time I made chiles en nogada, and the list goes on and on and on.

Food is cultural, food is something we experience, and the foods I have tried all over the planet tie those memories down for me. Though the food gets digested and eventually pooped out, the flavors stick in my mind. The things I was doing cement themselves in my consciousness, and those memories live on. If I smell something familiar that reminds me of a past experience all over the planet, I am instantly taken there, and the flood of memories and emotions can be intense. Sometimes tear inducing. Even watching something related to food in a show, like someone trying seaweed for the first time, takes me back, locates me back in that place where I was, back to what I was doing in that place in time.

The first time I tried sugar water pressed from sugarcane in the Amazon, my first broth made with Tsushima shiitake mushrooms, eating mikan fresh from the trees in the grove in Tsutsu overlooking the ocean, picking lemons from the school tree in Costa Rica to make lemonade, fresh tacos de tripa I would drench in salsa all around the streets of Juarez growing up, the elotero driving by our house, the tortilleria down the street and how we'd lay out all the tortillas on the table with my stepdad's mom so they wouldn't stick, the flour tortilla place down the street, the hamburguesa joint that put avocado and extra mostasa but no mayonnaise for me, las enchiladas de la iglesia friadas con todo y la salsa. The first time I had proper sushi on my first day with my host family in Japan, and the first time I learned how to make a curry from scratch. The first time I had roti from Gloria's in Brooklyn in New York, that African place on the main street, the fries from the East Side, and that time I made miso soup for the first guy I had ever been with. The first time I made mole from scratch in my tiny apartment in Tsushima, the first time I grew jalapeño plants from seed and could not stop staring at how green they were.

That time we had spicy burn your guts out curry on our last night in Ecuador, the fresh chicken soup made right there at the shop, that sugar alcohol drink given away freely up in the mountains, my first time tasting maracuya, my love for pejiballe in Costa Rica, and the simple gallo pinto they served at the school I helped at. Honey pineapple in O'ahu, black bread in Germany, raclette for dinner, mohnpielen for dessert, the burnt wheat toast my grandma would spread refried beans and cheese on that tasted so good.

The flavors of Mexico in apple soda, tamarindo, tepache, toronja, jamaica, horchata, pistachio ice cream, paletas de helado de fruta fresca, and my most favorite sweet bread of all time, the marranito. Making tamales over holidays, that one time my family worked the masa, and we all spread out the chile rojo and verde into the little masa pockets before wrapping them up and steaming them for dinner. Cold weather and warm food. How I used to hate the texture of that milk film that collected on the top of champurrado, but dealt with it because it was delicious. Those were my happy memories of the church. Menudo once I picked out the meat, bizcochos sprinkled with cinnamon and powdered sugar, and ronpope and calientitos. Capirotada, maizena which I always thought was just meh, and the never ending pots and plates of mole.

Kaki straight from the trees of my cab drivers, daikon from my schools, spinach from the farmer's market, and rice right from the island, grown right in the fields next door with some soy sauce and grilled over an open fire. Ramen super late at night in Kyoto when we decided we would just ditch class the next day anyway, ramen noodles handed over to us in a paper wrapping that my host grandma had made fresh. That broth and saltiness would make me have sweet dreams for days. The first time I had matcha at the temple, the first time I had fried natto wrapped in shiso. The first time I had a pineapple pico de gallo, the first time I had a shot of mezcal from a bottle given to my grandma from her dad when my uncle was born over 40 years ago, a great grandpa I would never meet. Mazapan and spicy tamarindo candy, mochi filled with anko, fresh mochi made on New Year's and served with that sweet honey sauce, spicy garlic shrimp from Fumi's, and Selena's famous lemon poppy seed cake.

There is a long list of memories and a plethora of flavors that are meticulously catalogued in my mind, that I have experienced in my lifetime, and will continue to experience new flavors. One time my roommate came home and brought a salsa that her friend had made. She asked me to taste it and tell her what I thought was in it. I listed every ingredient in that delicious salsa because I could taste everything and knew that they had been meshed well. That's what my memories are like. Individually they are all the ingredients that make up a delicious dish. Collectively, they create a stew, a sauce, a salsa, a dish that leaves you in awe, a dish that becomes better with time, and makes you want to experience more and find other ways to enhance that dish. It reminds you to be grateful to be alive because you have the privilege of being present in the moment. Memory soup, that's what nourishes me time and time again, and the vehicle of that nourishment is the food I consume.