Mi Familia

Here we are in the middle of April.  The weather's clearing up, the skies are parting, and maybe there's enough sun to start wearing shorts on the weekends.  Shorts and sandals, is there anything more typically Californian?

It's about this time of year - specifically April - where I start thinking about my Summer goals and more immediately, about the inevitable Cinco de Mayo celebration.  Normally, I take this time to think and prepare at least one new recipe for the shindig, which is pretty much how I spent most of my Easter Sunday.

The recipe will go unnamed (to protect the innocent), but what I took away from it is something I wanted to express more fully.  My intention from the outset of planning the Cinco De Mayo menu, aside from making sure everything is somewhat edible, is to include a lot of my family in everything that I do.  Traditionally, this dictates that the majority of the recipes are passed-down from my grandparents, to my parents, to me.  This year, I picked something a little more traditional and maybe a little more daunting. 

What can I say, I'm a sucker for punishment.

Luckily, I had my mom and my grandfather around this weekend to help out and supervise.  While one of my favorite memories of my grandmother is her cooking every Saturday morning when we'd visit, I always remember how much time and care she took when she was at that stove.  Same goes for my grandfather and the deliberate way he would cut every single piece of meat for any meal.  I took this to heart, and it brought a smile to my face when my grandfather took one taste of the finished product and smiled.

It's this recipe, most of all, that I treasure.  It reminded me that I have to remember where I come from, I have to remember where my parents came from, and most of all, I have to remember where our people came from.  As we sat there and looked at the old molcajete my mother had, you could see how much it had been used and passed down from person to person.  Although it no doubt started as a strong and grainy piece of volcanic rock, it was smooth and weathered from use; there were bits of seasoning, spice and herb crammed within each crevice; most of all, it looked older than anyone sitting at that table.

So when I'm cooking a family recipe, it really brings it all to heart what this time of year really means to me, in a much greater way than any tequila shot ever would.  In this sense, I hope that everyone really enjoys what I can try and bring to the table, and in the hope that one day, I will be able to teach my children the exact same thing.