Carrying in bundles of fresh ingredients in green bags, slicing and dicing each onions and clove preparing each spice for their bath in the pot. After I chop the vegetable up, my mom, scooping each piece up, and letting them fall into the hot pot, they sizzle. The smell dancing around the kitchen like a Latino dancing to their favorite bachata song. Pouring in the rice, ripping open the seasoning packets letting it smother each piece of rice like cover each open space of a white wall with paint.

Once golden, pouring countless cups of fresh chicken broth. Letting the rice soak up the flavor of the broth. Finishing it off with the finale, dropping in the frozen veggies, cilantro, and diced tomatoes and letting it boil until the rice grows. Once everything is finished, the rice speaking through the steam on the cover, like your mom knocking on your door telling you dinner is ready.

Four generations of family sit in one room. Same meal, same blood, same gratitudes. Grabbing the food we think we can fit in our belly as if it was our last meal together. The men, devouring each bite recognizing the love and compassion poured into this dish. The woman, holding back their own desires to make sure all the men and kids get their plates to start consuming their masterpiece.