A reflection on the cost of pursuing dreams at the expense of mom’s homemade meals

I miss when the kitchen steamed from chiles  

How the air would get spicy and my eyes would feel the flavor of chiles de arbol

Coughing from the chokes of knowing that the dish would be just as equally powerful

And then I would sit in this dining hall picking at the food 

I begin to crave being in that kitchen

Craving carne con chile 

Frijoles de olla 

Chorizo y papa

In this dining hall, miles away from my mother’s cooking

I think of how I left her home to go to school 

Something she did not get to do 

And now all I wish I could do is be back home with her

Wait for her voice to say that it’s time to eat

Not be in this space that I feel I don’t belong in

That feels it’s not made for people who look like me.

I am alone in this apartment 

And the tortillas I make don’t look like hers

Because growing up, I would be glued to my homework 

Praying that one day I would go to a university far from this kitchen

Refusing to watch her as she would eyeball the masa-to-water ratio

When I call her she explains her recipes through the phone

But how does one put a measurement on ‘ehcale hasta que pica’ 

I am embarrassed to ask her how to make lentejas 

A dish I hated then but want so bad now.

This soup I eat, pre-made from a grocery store

(Because how does one have time to study for midterms and make posole verde)

In this kitchen that doesn’t feel like the one I grew up in 

It feels alone

It feels like a dining hall

It feels like a space I do not belong in

A space not made for people that look like me

I look at this bowl and pick at it 

And imagine I am home 

With my mother 

Eating pozole verde.

Header by Alex Carrasquillo