Roaches
Issue nº4
Dear roommates, lovers, or anyone who’s ever asked me to make them a meal, I haven’t learned how to cook yet. You wouldn’t have guessed with my curvaceous frame and deep caramel skin. But I don’t know how to make eggs Or how to cook rice Or how to fry chicken Or how to cook pasta al dente. It's a little embarrassing, quite frankly. I’m an Afro-Latina who grew up on arroz con gandules, soul food, and habichuelas for days. So it’s a bit humiliating when people ask me to bring “authentic” Puerto Rican food to the potluck and I come bearing empty plates. My mother is a witch in the kitchen. Rosemary, oregano, cayenne, cilantro, the smells danced around the kitchen like a ballroom full of salsa dancers. When the heat of the kitchen proved too hot for my mother’s skin, she would take a step into the living room, take a deep breath, and go back to her wizardry. Sweating, spicing, creating gourmet delicacies in our small midwestern apartment. But even after watching my mom slave away at a stove all day I still don’t know how to cook. See, in my culture cooking is the ultimate presentation of affection. My mom would bring a plate of food to my dad when he worked for a semi-truck company. Every night, no matter what, she packed his dinner into Tupperware and drove forty-five minutes to his truck station on the outskirts of the city. To us, food is a love language. 40
