The Beginning

Food has been and most certainly will always be a big part of me. I grew up in a big family, four brothers, four sisters and not to mention the nieces, nephews and friends that somehow never went home. The only time we all actually caught up with each other was in the kitchen. My father made most of his living working as a cook at a Chinese joint in Arlington Virginia, housekeeper in a hotel and a side handy man job he created for himself. My mother worked a full time job as a care taker and a full time house wife as well. Despite all the absence of both my parents, there was a certain time of day we all would give our hugs, hear lectures, get school work looked at and just enjoy everyone’s company.

It was literally an hour of pleasant laughter and peace of mind, after that, the circus rolled right on out of the kitchen. We never had many proper sit down dinners, their were too many lives all in one place, so the stand and eat routine was just as enjoyable to me as the television dinner around a table.

There’s nothing better than enjoying the talents of my dad’s trained chinese cuisine career and my mom’s traditional Salvadorian/Spanish meals. Very opposite types of cuisine yet they both somehow made it work. 

I always took interest in food, purposely getting in their way while they whip up massive amounts of ingredients into delicious meals. I never cooked a full meal on my own, never. Until I moved out right after high school. As a teenager I felt overwhelmed and lost in the size of my family, wondered how my “american” friend's family lived and how great it must be to see your parents and actually have a full conversation without interruptions or not have a Salvadorian mom screaming at you because you can’t make one good tortilla.

When I stood in front of the stove for the first time on my own, I got the most overwhelming sense of solitude it almost made me break down crying. Never in a million years would I have imagined a stove, a wooden spoon and the sight of a dinner table of guests trigger my desire to be at home in my parents kitchen. I pushed forward, held back the urge to pick up the phone and call my mother and swallowed the ball of emotions forming in my throat. What did I make? Carne Guisada.