Mom, Can You Make Me Stew?

Food is one of the most foundational parts of my childhood. Every time I think back to me running around my house, I can smell my mother’s sopita, or my grandfather’s eggnog French toast. It transports me back to a time when college was a dream, not a reality. Everything seems so simple when I think back to my mom making stew or my grandmother teaching me how to make bread. 

Now that I’m older and responsible for my own food, I find myself repeating meals I grew up with. But I am also learning what my own favorite foods are, and how to create my own comfort foods. Currently, my favorite meals are taco bowls, teriyaki chicken, and pasta. 

Even making food is an additional layer of story, family, and community. My grandmother taught me how to make bread. She would tell the same story every time she brought out the flour, “I used to make this daily at the commune I lived at”. 

It would annoy me at first, but as we kept baking together, I’d learn more stories. Now, every time I make bread, I imagine my grandmother next to me, repeating the stories I now know by heart. But the bread doesn’t taste the same. 

As the semester comes and goes, when I come home, I call my mom a couple of days before. I’d give her three meals that I’d been craving. Most of the time, it’s these three: stew, pozole, and chicken pot pie. And without a doubt, she’ll make it. I look forward to it; it’s my little time capsule. I’m taken back to a time when I’d come home, put my backpack by the door, and wait for her to come make dinner. 

It’s truly one of the most surreal experiences realizing that the meals I thought were regular, boring, and routine are something I crave when I’m feeling homesick; they’re special. 

This past weekend, I went home for the first time since move-in. My mom surprised me with her stew. This time, she froze it for me, so I could take it home and eat stew all week. It sounds trivial, I’m sure. But every day last week, I went home a little quicker. I would heat up my stew, and I’d feel lighter, less overwhelmed. 

Now, I love to cook. I cook for my friends, my boyfriend, his roommates, and my roommates. Anyone who wants a plate, my door is open. It’s my own way of trying to make someone feel just as light and just as relaxed as I do when I taste my mom’s cooking. 

Food transports us in a way that can’t be replicated. It reminds us that we have a place, beyond our struggles and problems, a place that will always be there. 

• college
• food
• health
• love