Food and Connection Theme Analysis

All I know is she cried into her plate that night. And so at the age of four, I learned someone could cry from a happy memory.

Ever since then ’Buela is convinced I have magical hands when it comes to cooking. And I don’t know if I really have something special, or if her telling me I got something special has brainwashed me into believing it, but I do know I’m happier in the kitchen than anywhere else in the world. It’s the one place I let go and only need to focus on the basics: taste, smell, texture, fusion, beauty.

“I think you should write about the one that scares you most. Taking risks and making choices in spite of fear—it’s what makes our life story compelling.”

There’s that word again. She walks away but I have a feeling her advice wasn’t about the essay prompt at all.

I let go of a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I don’t know much about pathogens and storing sugar, but damn if I don’t know how to cook good food that makes people hungry for more, that makes people remember food is meant to feed more than an empty belly. It’s also meant to nourish your heart. And that’s one thing you won’t ever learn from no textbook.

He clears his throat and it seems almost like a memory has him choked up. “This is delicious, but I want to make sure you follow the ingredients list. If you work under a chef and they give you clear directions, it’s disrespectful to try and modify their recipe without first consulting them. Whether or not you think the flavors will work.”

“Fuentes knows any school I apply to will have to be in Philadelphia. She’s had me research La Salle, Temple, St. Joseph’s. She’s pushing for Drexel, which has a culinary arts program, but you know I’m not good at school, so a scholarship is out of the question. I don’t even want to think about taking out loans. And how can I work full-time and go to school full-time and raise Babygirl full-time? I think in order of most important, school is at the bottom, right?”

“It’s not the recipe I gave you. It doesn’t have the same ingredients, and the cut on these is wrong.”

“It tastes good, it’s well-balanced like you tell us to do, and the presentation is flawless,” I say through my teeth.

He grabs a fork, stabs the dish, and pops it in his mouth. He’s quiet for a long moment. And I can tell he loves it. He shakes his head. “Cumin, basil, oregano.” His eyes pop open. “None of those ingredients were in the recipe. This isn’t the same dish at all. I can’t grade something that is more about creativity than execution. That wasn’t the point of today’s evaluation. So I won’t say it again: trash it.”

Chef Ayden isn’t angry with me. Chef Ayden thinks I could own or be head chef of a restaurant one day. Chef Ayden wants me to lead a fund-raising committee.

I’ve seen chefs on TV time and time again say they had to pay their dues. And I never knew exactly what that meant but now I think I get it. It’s about doing the grunt work behind the scenes, washing dishes, folding napkins, taking stock, before you ever touch a recipe. It’s about being the creative mind behind raising a shit-ton of money so you can go on a trip abroad.

Chili aioli would make this bomb. A sweet and savory bite. I almost walk to the spice cabinet, then stop myself.

That’s not the recipe.

“Can I tell you the oddest thing about your hen? I’ve been having a bad day. Everything was going wrong, including my stove not wanting to turn on, which is why I came out for dinner, on a Monday of all days! But from the first bite of your food…it reminded me of my favorite aunt. Sitting at her knee when she told me stories and shucked peas.” His voice gets rough at the end and I give his hand a small squeeze.

I didn’t think I would be accepted into Drexel. My grade point average was a little below what they say a student needs, so I’m still shocked. Unlike the guidance counselor in middle school, Ms. Fuentes pushed me to apply even though it was a reach school. It’s close to home. It’s a great school. And it has a culinary arts program that focuses not only on cooking, but also on restaurant management.

But I don’t know how I’ll help pay bills if I’m also paying for school.

“I go to the doctor so much because sometimes I need to get away from all of…” She swirls her hand in the air and “all of” must mean everything in the house. “I go to the doctor to remind myself I am more than a great-grandmother to a toddler, and a grandmother to a teen mother, and a mother to a rascal of a son.”

She clears her throat. “Okay… The real reason I ‘go to the doctor’ so much is because of Joseph, Mr. Jagoda. […] And nena, it’s…” she pats her chest, and I know just what she means. “He isn’t perfect! I mean, he’s a Giant’s fan, for God’s sake, but he makes me feel like a woman. Not only a mother so many times removed.”

“Your grandmother says your food reminds her of Puerto Rico. But for me? Your food doesn’t make me think of back home, it makes me think of the home I had here. Every single one of your dishes makes me think of your mother. It kills me to see memories of her face every time I take a bite of something you made. It kills me to be here in Philadelphia, and every street corner reminds me of her. I always think with time it will get easier. But it hasn’t.”

Although my food still doesn’t give me any memories, it has always been looking back; it’s infused with the people I come from. But it’s also a way for me to look forward: to watch the recipes that from my roots transform, grow, and feed the hungriest places inside of me.

“I understand. And although I’ll be attending Drexel’s Culinary Arts program on a part-time basis, it’s not too far from here, so I can go to classes in the morning and be here by the lunchtime rush. My family is helping me out to make sure. I can commit to the long hours.” I give her a soft shrug. “I want to stay in Philly and work in Philly and learn from a restaurant in Philly. Because I think I have a lot to offer my hometown and the places I’m from.”