Growing up in a chef's kitchen.

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. 
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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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