Wela, my great-grandmother, is still in the cocina infusing the smell of rice and beans into my hair and clothes. For years, I’ve watched the heat in the kitchen paint her face like a tomato and the steam from the pot of rice fog her 1980’s glasses as they slip down her pudgy nose.

Growing up, I thought Wela was too old-fashioned. I did not understand her perspectives, her restrictions and her style. “You have to learn how to cook so you can serve your husband and family,” explained Wela countless times. She automatically assumed my ultimate destiny meant marriage and kids. (more…)