There's magic in a chef's kitchen.
Especially for a child. Everything was a concoction, a mystery, a potion.
I remember waking up to the smell of ground spices giving off their scent, pork roasting over las parillas, or the sweetness of arroz con leche cooling on the countertop. I got use to the sound of pots and pans colliding, calling me to the kitchen where I would watch my father dance around from one place to the other.
But it was those large looming pots that sat upon the fire that held the greatest mysteries.
In went the chicken or the fish or the crab. In went the vegetables and the spices and a whisper or two from my dad. Then on went the top and a little bit later, out came magic.
Especially for a child. Everything was a concoction, a mystery, a potion.
I remember waking up to the smell of ground spices giving off their scent, pork roasting over las parillas, or the sweetness of arroz con leche cooling on the countertop. I got use to the sound of pots and pans colliding, calling me to the kitchen where I would watch my father dance around from one place to the other.
But it was those large looming pots that sat upon the fire that held the greatest mysteries.
In went the chicken or the fish or the crab. In went the vegetables and the spices and a whisper or two from my dad. Then on went the top and a little bit later, out came magic.
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