A smell hits me.
The smell of onions and tomatoes simmer in a pot of rice.
I cough from the spice. Chiles and tomatoes boil.
Nopales cook to steam out the babas.
Frijoles cooking for hours to heat the house.
Tortillas hot to melt butter.
I come back from the far-off gaze that left me in a trance.
A trance that took me to my abuelita’s home as a child.
Playing with cousins and eating abuelita’s meals made from scratch.
No recipe to follow, no measuring to do.
Food made with heart by hand.
Now I cook these meals for my children.
The comida that takes me back to when I was a child.
The smell that now comes from my home,
made from my heart, with my hands,
from my abuelita.
--Angelica Q., Adult