Buen Provecho

The kitchen was her kingdom. She stood before her domain, taking in the immaculate, cozy view and fragrant smell of spices that enticed her. The sun shined brightly through the two windows, giving the auburn cabinets a honey-colored tint. With a smile on her face and swiftness in her hands, she grabbed the black apron, decorated with a colorful candy skull surrounded by a plethora of vibrant flowers off the wall, placing it over her head and effortlessly tying it around her slender waist. On her way to the sink, she lightly tapped the sky blue radio prompting the bossa nova jazz music to fill the room. While moving to the beat, she turned the sink knob, letting warm water flow gently from the spout. She massaged the lemon and mint bar of soap under the water, lathering her meager hands. Once done, she turned off the water, turned to face her empire, clasped her hands before her chest, and smiled wide.

“Showtime,” she proclaimed. Without hesitation she moved to the counters, taking the newly bought food from the handmade straw basket. Recently butchered pork and freshly hand-picked peppers, tomatillos, and cilantro were promptly removed from the hamper. It was time to prepare Amaya’s favorite childhood dish: Chile Verde! Although she loved cooking the dish for herself, she was extra excited when she had the chance to cook it for friends or family. And today was a special occasion. Today she would cook it for her mother, the very person who taught her the art of cooking.

Turning to face the sink again, Amaya removed the onion and three garlic that hung next to the window. After peeling the bulbous vegetables and breaking the garlic cloves apart, she placed them on the maple cutting board beside the sink, grabbed a knife, and expertly chopped the ingredients into finely diced morsels. She loved no activity quite like she loved cooking. Even mundane tasks, like slicing and dicing, gave her that hit of dopamine like nothing else. She took every opportunity to prepare a meal, whether for friends, family, neighbors, or even strangers. Her mother’s words often played in her mind: “the only thing better than a good chef is one that’s generous!” 

As she reminisced on the past, she reached into the cabinet below the sink and fished out the extra virgin olive oil. With a spin, she turned to the stove, turned it to medium-high heat before pouring the dark green river into the cast iron pan. Next, she grabbed the packaged pork and moved it to her maple cutting board beside the stove. After picking a new knife, she elegantly cut the plastic, taking out the slabs of meat and setting them on the board. She tossed the packaging to the trash and joyfully began separating the meat from the fat. As the tune changed, she gently tapped her foot and hummed along. 

After quickly cutting the meat into cubes and seasoning with generous amounts of salt, pepper, and cumin, she scooped a handful of chunks in her hands, carefully dropping them into the pot. Instantly, the sound of sizzling pork filled the air. She repeated this until all the meat was in the searing pot. Using her favorite spatula, the one with the light blue handle, Amaya gently tossed the meat, ensuring all sides got the attention of the scolding hot skillet. She then slid the onions into the saucepan, careful to keep the garlic on the cutting board. The pan eagerly sizzled again. She let the pot sing a moment before stirring again, giving the onions the same courtesy as the pork.

Watching the food mingle brought Amaya back to her childhood, where she helped her mother cook at every chance. Like the other kids, she loved to play with her friends and toys, but she would never pass up an opportunity to help her mother cook. The crackle reminded her of the first time she was walking in the hallway and heard the skillet sing. It was as if at that very moment, the kitchen called to her. She watched her mother dance through the kitchen with elegant motion but also handle each and every task with precision. Five-year-old Amaya couldn’t pull away. She knew at that very moment she wanted to learn this skill. She felt as if her very destiny was to be the successor of this realm.

Despite the nostalgia, Amaya never allowed herself to be fully distracted from the task at hand; once the food turned an inviting brown, Amaya added garlic, oregano, ground clove, extra cumin, and cinnamon. She gave the contents a few good stirs before turning the stove down to low. She then side-stepped to the neighboring pot, lifting the lid and letting the full smell of the simmering chicken broth fill the air around her. She inhaled the rosemary, thyme, and onion mixture that blended into the savory aroma. She let out a satisfied sigh. It was steeped to perfection! She poured the golden yellow broth into the cast iron pan, filling the skillet to the brim. She then placed a lid on top and made her way to the last of the ingredients.

Amaya was far too modest to admit it, but she truly possessed the skill of a noteworthy culinarian. She was an artist. And cooking was her craft. As much as she ruled over the kitchen like an unconquerable queen, she was also one with it as a dancer on the dancefloor, moving with the flow and making it her own. From her elegant dicing to her graceful stirring, every action was done as though she was performing on stage. Like an actress lost in her role, she let the instinctual chef within take control every time.

She only spared a second turning on the oven before moving to the next scene. With brisk movement, she grabbed the jalapeños, poblanos, and Anaheim peppers from the counter, rinsing and placing them on the vegetable designated cutting wood. With unmatchable speed, she cut the peppers in half, separating the base from the stem and seeds. Upon reaching the last jalapeño, she only removed the stem, leaving the seeds to add extra spice; just how her mother liked it.

From a cabinet by the stove, she acquired a baking sheet and decorated it in aluminum foil. She danced between the two counters as if she were one with the jaunty song, placing the peppers facedown on the paper in an organized fashion. She sashayed to the beat as she opened the stainless steel oven and placed the peppers in to broil. With the oven rack placed as close to the heating source, Amaya didn’t wait long before opening the oven to flip the peppers over. She let the music move her as she grabbed a clear bag from a drawer. Within minutes, she opened the oven again, seeing the perfectly browned peppers. She couldn’t help but smile at her flawless ability to guess when they were ready.

Reaching her hand into oven mitts that matched her lively apron, she removed the peppers from the oven and wasted no time before pouring them into the transparent bag. She tied it, setting them on the counter to steam and stew in their flavor. She placed the cooking sheet on the back of the stove and moved to the tomatillos, repeating the same actions she did as before. Rather than place them in a bag, she dumped the brown and green orbs into the blender. She then opened the bag of peppers, allowing the spicy aroma to mingle with the other smells in the air. Amaya peeled the skins, throwing them away and placing the meaty insides in the blender, and discarding the plastic bag once done. She then grabbed all her freshly bought cilantro, rinsed it, and tossed it in the contraption as well.

Without hesitation, she blended the contents until they began to look relatively smooth. As she drew closer to all the chunks being smoothed, she played the blender to the melody of the groovy number emitting from the radio. Once content, she lifted the lid of the container and gently shook it, swirling the green sauce around. Seeing no chunks, she spun around to the simmering pot of pork, broth, and vegetables. She lifted the lid, taking in the tangy perfume. With steady hands, she tilted the cup, letting the piquant stream flow into the flavor-filled dish.

Amaya felt like she was back in her youth again, where her mother always let her blend the thick liquid and add it to the stewing supper. She could think of no dish that reminded her of home quite like Chile Verde. Every week her brothers and sisters would beg for the flavorful dish. No matter how many times it was served at the dinner table, none of them could ever get enough. Amaya thought of how far she’d come, from watching her mother’s show to becoming the star of the kitchen herself. She truly felt like a queen atop a throne of pots and pans.

After purposefully stirring the meal, Amaya placed the lid on once again and hastily took steps to return the kitchen to its pristine condition. The show was complete and now it was time to clean the stage. She swayed with the music as she washed the dishes and swept the floor. Halfway through the cleaning spree, she stopped to make Spanish rice to accompany the meal. She saved this task for the very last as what’s better with Chile Verde than hot rice? She poured the olive oil then rice into the new pot, letting it brown before adding the leftover garlic, chicken broth, and needed spices. After mixing the final piece of the evening meal, the olive oil and unused seasonings were returned to their cupboard homes. The apron was removed and hung on the wall, followed by the shopping basket over top of it. The oven mitts were resituated on the oven handle followed by a complete wipe down of the kitchen. 

Amaya looked over the room, the space that made her home a home. With not a thing out of place, she knew everything was done. She looked at the clock and noticed thirty minutes had passed. No doubt her impromptu dancing added to the cleaning time, but that just meant the dish would be even better. From start to end she was in a jubilant mood, and her mom always said, “cooking takes on emotion. When you step into the kitchen, find a reason to smile. Every dish is worth making with a smile.” She always followed this wisdom and she always did her best with every dish. She smiled again, grateful for the chance to cook for the person she loved most.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Amaya couldn’t help but smile wider. Before she opened the door, she knew exactly who it was.

“Mamá!” Amaya exclaimed, pushing the door away and stepping outside to embrace the older woman. Her mother smiled, reaching her arms around to embrace her daughter. The pleasant fragrance immediately greeted her, as if huddled around, hugging the mother and daughter as well. Amaya stood back and stepped aside letting her mother come in. The woman chuckled.

“You made Chile Verde, didn’t you?” she asked with a loving grin.

Amaya nodded, “you can always tell what’s cooking as soon as you walk in!”

Her mother tapped her nose. “I’ve got a special one of these. God had to give me something in exchange for the poor eyesight and hearing,” her mother joked, “and I’m glad I’ve got it because it smells absolutely amazing in here! Who told you Chile Verde was my favorite?”

“Oh, it’s your favorite, really? I never knew. I just made my favorite,” Amaya jested back, earning another chuckle from her mother.

Her mother smiled warmly, “you humor me so. But enough chatter, the smell is one thing, the taste is another! Buen provecho!”