A Taste of Home

As I came down the stairs on a Friday morning a few weeks ago, I could hear the onions sizzling in the pan and the smell of peppers cooking filled the air. “Good morning, hermana! Queires desayuno?” yelled my brother-in-law. I replied, “Good morning, hermano! Yes, of course, I’d love some breakfast, thank you so much!” because I’d be crazy to deny breakfast made by a chef. I sat down at the island in our kitchen and watched him work his magic, with bachata music blasting in the background. If it weren’t so cold outside, you might think we were in the middle of Mexico from the music, the smells, and the little dance my brother-in-law did as he added the spices to the pan.

Within a few minutes, he set down a beautiful breakfast burrito in front of me and I couldn’t wait to take a bite. He made himself one too, so he sat down next to me and we ate breakfast together. It was absolutely delicious, even though when I first saw him adding the various ingredients together I was slightly worried. After he grilled the tortilla, he spread vegetable cream cheese on it, and then he put in fried eggs, breakfast sausage, shredded cheese, peppers, onions and avocado. As I finished up the last bites, I realized that I was biting into a symbol of Alex and his culture. His cooking is a representation of where he comes from and where he is now, which he combines as a staple of his identity.

I began talking with him, asking him if he misses home. Carmen Alex Martinez Euceda, who goes by Alex, is my brother-in- law and came to the United States from Honduras in 1999. He immigrated to the United States for a better life because Honduras is an extremely poor country in Central America. Alex grew up on a farm with five brothers and one sister, making seven kids in total. As he continued telling me the story of his childhood, his face lit up and he radiated happiness. He told me they had a huge farm, with many chickens, goats, cows and horses. Every morning, each child had chores that they had to execute. Alex’s job was to collect the eggs from the chickens, and at dinnertime it was his job to chase after a chicken to kill it for the family to eat. I know, a little bit shocking to hear at first, but apparently Alex was assigned to this job because he was the “crazy one.”

I asked him if he missed his home, and if he ever wished he could go back. He replied, “Of course I miss it there! It’s my childhood. Yes, it’s much nicer here and life is better, but I miss my parents, and I miss the farm. There was something about it that nothing can fill and has left a void in my heart.” He explained that there are different things here in the United States that help connect him to Honduras, especially through food. “Hempstead. That’s my home away from home.” Hempstead is a town on Long Island with a large Latin population. When Alex wants real Spanish food, like the kind his mom used to make, he heads to Hempstead because “all those chain restaurants like Taco Bell and Chipotle are fake Spanish food. It’s not the same.”

When Alex visits Hempstead, he goes into several bodegas and Spanish groceries, where they serve hot food all day long. He gets chicken with rice, pork, beans, empanadas, and these small sweet tortillas, among other traditional foods of Latin culture. His favorite is called Avena. Avena is a hot drink of oatmeal, sugar, milk and spices that he loves. I’ll see him come home with giant cups of it. “When I drink this, it’s as if I’m sitting in the kitchen with mi madre cooking behind the stove. It reminds me of the good old days” Alex told me.  For Alex, eating the foods from the bodegas in Hempstead allow him to be transported, even just by a few of his senses, to the place where his childhood remains.

When he can’t make a trip to Hempstead, his cooking is his way of expressing his mixed cultures and his history. Alex is an amazing chef, and thinking about all the food I’ve eaten from him over the years, it really does express a mixture of cultures. When he cooks, he combines traditional spicy Spanish flair with American cuisine into his dishes that show both his Latin heritage and the culture he is come to know in the United States. “Remember when I made those pulled pork sliders, hermana? I seasoned them the way my mom used to season the pork we had for dinner. I also made a barbecue sauce, something really native to here. It’s fun to experiment and combine flavors.”

I could never understand how Alex, and immigrants in general, survive and push past the homesickness that may overcome them so easily. For Alex, and I’m sure many others, food is their connection to their homelands. Whether it’s finding a town that serves traditional food from a certain country, or cooking recipes that one’s mother used to make when they were little, food allows people to remember childhood memories and takes them back to the place where they come from. Food provides a taste of the past. A taste of home.