“But can you guess the most important ingredient?” José says from the miniscule apartment kitchen into the dining room. “Love. The Calvo tortillas must be cooked with love,” concludes his painfully detailed description of his favorite dish.

Iraide and Leire groan. They didn’t think their dad would embarrass them within an hour of the arrival of their American host sisters, Liv and me.

I glance at Liv, both of us doing our best to hold in laughter. We struggle after 24 hours of travel. With a dramatic flourish of his hands, nearly knocking down pictures on the wall of the cramped apartment dining room, José places the Spanish tortilla on the table.

Liv and I lose our fight against our hysteria, releasing our laughter.

“It looks like an omelette,” I exclaim between laughs.

The family glares at me incredulously.

José gasps. “The Spanish tortilla is so much more than just an omelette.” I regard the dish again. It looks simple. Slight burns swirl across the surface of the bright yellow eggs like foam over a breaking ocean wave. A sheen of olive oil glistens over the dish. Corners of potatoes poke through, giving the top texture. The plate gives off the aroma of fried eggs with an added savory touch.

“Well, go on,” Iraide urges. “It’ll be your first taste of the best cuisine in the world.”

I gently lift a slice of the fragile tortilla onto my plate.

The family watches expectantly as I take my first bite. A flavor combination of potatoes, eggs, and onions dance over my taste buds in a way I have never experienced. An expression of astonishment crosses my face as I’m eating.

José smiles. “Welcome to Spain.”