Life, from my perspective, is made of memories, flavors, and traditions. No human being escapes this mix of sensory memories that mark our souls, and I am no exception. If I close my eyes and think about my childhood, the first thing that comes to mind is the aroma of the meals my mother prepared. It wasn't just cooking: it was a ritual, a family ceremony that took shape especially on weekends.
I remember how we all participated. My mother led with a calm but firm energy, and everyone had a task—sometimes it was chopping vegetables, other times kneading dough—but there was always a sense of unity. The special dishes that came out of her kitchen nourished not only the body but also the heart. It was as if each ingredient carried with it a story, an emotion, a lesson.
I suppose she inherited all of that from her mother, my grandmother. She had a gift; she could transform the simplest things into something sublime. Her desserts were legendary; sweets that seemed to have the power to stop time, but even her everyday meals, the ones without fancy names or exotic ingredients, had a flavor I haven't found anywhere else. It was as if she cooked with her soul.
Today, when I try to recreate one of those recipes, I'm not just looking for the flavor; I'm looking to relive that moment, that connection, that legacy passed down from generation to generation. Cooking, for me, is a way to remember, to honor, to keep alive the essence of those who shaped us because, in the end, that's what life is made of: moments held in the heart, aromas that bring us back home, and traditions that remind us of who we are.
For me, Christmas has always been a true feast of joy. More than a celebration, it's a sacred time that brings together the deepest flavors of our roots. It's a blend of feeling, living, and savoring that transforms December into something magical. In my family, every year it was a celebration of aromas, colors, and emotions. My parents excelled at preparing traditional dishes, and every December 23rd became a day of celebration: no one left the house, because that day was reserved exclusively for making hallacas.
Although I was just a child back then, the flavor of my mother's cooking was etched in my memory like an invisible tattoo. Her seasoning was unmistakable, and every bite carried a story. A few days ago, I tried a hallaca bought on the street, the first of the year, and something unexpected happened; that flavor shook me to the core. It was my mother's seasoning; I couldn't believe it. It was as if time had stopped and nostalgia had surfaced without asking permission. That hallaca spoke to me, taking me back to the kitchen of my childhood, to the warmth of December, to the love she put into every preparation.
Every year, when we prepared hallacas, we all knew exactly what to do; it was like a family choreography repeated with love and precision. Mom took charge of the stew, and we surrounded her, helping with every step. I remember she made about a hundred hallacas, maybe more. The large table would be filled with wrappings, and the air was filled with that aroma that only she knew how to create. Beyond the gathering, what was truly special was the flavor; it wasn't the ingredients, it was her; it was her love, her dedication, her magic. That's why her hallacas tasted heavenly.
Today, every time I prepare hallacas, I try to follow in her footsteps, but I know that unique flavor isn't found in any recipe. It was in her, and even though she's no longer physically present, her essence lives on in every December, in every stew, in every memory triggered by the first bite.