My mom and I are queens of cooking. If my father and siblings tried to cook a meal, it would be like attempting to find their way through a thick forest with no compass.

If my dad is hungry, he warms a tortilla and spread the cool butter, watching it melt and ooze, the snack of his childhood.

If my brother was given an onion, he’d throw it around like a mini basketball, the perfect size for his mini hoop.

The gene of cooking was passed down to each girl in the family, somehow skipping my sister as it walked down the family tree. Simply a boxed mac and cheese with instructions was her answer to this problem.

To me, a knife is my best friend, there when I need it. Recipes as filing cabinets in my head, separated into folders for each of my cravings. My mom, knows how to perfect each dish, the way she knows exactly what advice to give me in troubled times.

A bite of her enchiladas feels like a warm back rub when I am stressed out.  Love, as important of an ingredient as the sazon goya seasoning packets in the rice. Cooking abilities strong or weak, the food we cook, the food serve, the food we eat being able to taste the love in each bite.