Esteban Castillo - Chicano Eats: Recipes from My Mexican-American Kitchen

Contents

Contents

Growing up in Southern California, I spent a lot of time shuttling between Mexico and the US throughout my childhood. I often heard my mom and dad repeat the same stories over and over, as if they were discos rayados, or scratched vinyls, on a constant loop. My pap would tell of his younger days as a soccer player, sneaking out of the house with nothing but a few pesos in his pocket and the huaraches on his feet to play in tournaments all over Colima, Mexico, the province where both of my parents were born. When he wasnt telling us about his childhood, he was spending his evenings after work listening to old cassette tapes that hed buy en el swapmeet, featuring musicians like Chelo, Las Jilguerillas, and Pedrito Fernandez, reminiscing about the life he left behind when he came to the US, only to realize that the American dream he had once been enchanted by was a distant reality for him. My mom, on the other hand, always had stories on the ready about her trips to Cuyutln, a tiny pueblito along the Pacific coast where they serve the best ceviche Ive ever had, and where she and her siblings would visit every spring to help mi abuelito Rogelio mine sea salt.

Its as if they reminisced every time they needed to feel closer to home, and this habit seems to have sunk into my boneslately Ive found myself replaying their stories in my head, mixing their tales with my own daydreams of the sights and sweet smells from my trips to Mexico as a kid.

One of my favorite stories took place during a hot and sticky summer in Colima, the kind where humidity kisses every inch of your body and youre drenched in sweat the second you step out of the house. Known for its humid weather, pozole seco, and its famous palmeras (palm trees), Colima is a small state along Mexicos central Pacific coast, bordered by the states of Jalisco and Michoacn. Mi mam said I must have been two or three, and she and I were living with mi abuelita Victoria at the time while my dad was in the States working at a warehouse building car sensors, trying to earn enough money so we could return there, too. This particular morning, everyone was helping to prepare the house for a cousins birthday party, but I was busy watching cartoons. My mom claims that she was so busy that morning barriendo y trapeando el piso that when she looked over her shoulder, I was no longer on the couch. She wondered if I had walked over to play with the cotorras, my grandmas parrots, or if I had wandered into my aunts room. But I had gone to neithershe found me that morning in the kitchen, of course, hiding in an olla pozolera, the pot in which my grandma would be cooking the pozole later that afternoon. If youve ever seen these ollas, youd know that they are as wide and tall as a toddler, making them, in my case, the perfect hiding spot.

Mi mam spotted my head peeking out of the pot, and when she turned her back, I tried climbing out to run away but fell out of the pot and cut my head open instead, leaving a scar that is still visible to this day. Now that Im an adult who lives in his kitchen, I like to think that, much like the scar on my forehead, my passion for food (and hiding in the kitchen) has been etched into me since I was a little boy.

My parents immigrated to the United States in the late 80s while they were both still in their teens. They had grown up a few blocks from each other in Villa de Alvarez, Colima, and eventually met when they were both in school. My dad, the second youngest of seven, already had a few siblings who had made the trip across the border into California, and every time they spoke, these siblings would entice him with the many job opportunities that waited on the other side. Right before I was born, both of my parents decided to make the arduous trip across the border so that they could provide me with a better life. They wanted to give me everything they never had, like the possibility of a better education and healthcare. They wanted me to have the opportunity to thrive. But after I arrived, trying to establish roots in a foreign country proved very tough without a car or a decent paying job.

They decided that my mom and I would return to Colima for a bit while my dad searched for a job that would allow him to support the three of us, and so we flew to Colima to stay with mi abuelita Victoria for the next two years. Then we returned to the US again, and for my parents, this would be for goodbecause they were both undocumented (and couldnt return to Mexico). Id often find myself traveling to Mexico with an aunt or an uncle and sometimes even by myself, carrying a letter in my pocket with my parents permission to fly alone: They wanted me to be able to enjoy what they couldnt, the privilege of traveling back to Mexico to be with family.

For my moms side of the family, food wasnt just nourishmentit was, and still is, their livelihood. Mi abuelito Rogelio spent his life mining sea salt in Cuyutln every spring. During the rest of the year, if mi abuelito wasnt making a giant pot of birria (a goat stew in a spiced guajillo broth) for someones party, hed park a clunky white taco cart outside of el jardn de la villa to sell tacos. When I had nothing better to do, Id go sit on an empty crate by his side and scarf down his tacos de adobada with frijoles de olla and wash them down with an ice-cold orange Fanta as he sold tacos deep into the night. There was always a buzz of people walking by, greeting him with a wave and an excited rale Don Rogelio!, and crowding around his cart to wait for the prize, watching the adobada, a juicy marinated pork that was his specialty, sizzle on the flattop griddle.

After he was thrown off his horse in the cobble-stoned streets of the neighboring province of Comala and injured his back, mi abuelito Rogelio had to retire, and mi abuelita Nina took over. Mi abuelita has been making cheeses for more than twenty years. Its a skill she probably picked up from one of her comadres, but well never know for sure because as my friend Thelma says, shes a regular Juana of all trades. I remember I would sit in the kitchen, mostly because thats where shed have the fan running, and Id just watch her stand at the sink squeezing out the whey to make cheese, completely mesmerized by the process. There was something soothing about the sour smell of dairy in the air and the pit-pat sound her hands would make as she carefully molded the curds into a wheel the size of my head, wheels that would take her days to make using the milk from mi abuelitos cows. She still continues to work, opening her home to the public on weekends and transforming her backyard into a makeshift restaurant, frying up tacos de papa, sopes, and pozole seco for anyone looking for a good meal.

This back and forth between the US and Mexico continued until I was about ten years old, when I stopped visiting MexicoI didnt get to return until I was twenty-five. My dad had changed careers as I was heading into middle school, and the next few years were a rough time for us financially. I also soon had two younger siblings growing up alongside me, so the only way Id be returning was if I paid for the trip myself. It took, well, a while.