Carne Bif And Queerness...
And why I've never included trigger warnings in my writing.
Instagram “Close Friends” List - Me and Mami’s Day Trips, Day Trip Soundtracks, Burgers, Bochinche-Chisme, CaliforniaCore
Written Recipes
Videos of Recipes
The “Most comprehensive list of Northern California burgers you'll ever find, according to Mami.”
My one and only “List of places to eat in Puerto Rico” will be emailed directly to you.
Annual Christmas gift sent directly to your doorstep
Disclaimer: I debated on whether or not I should take the advice of some of my readers and include a trigger warning on my entries that are aligned on the more intense side. I considered it. Before “Behind the comfort of arroz con gandules, an unsettling adult world,” lined the pages of Diasporican, it was a 2017 San Francisco Chronicle article for my column, Cocina Boricua. It makes me wonder…if I was still writing for the SF Chronicle would we have to include trigger warnings? Would that alter the impact of the story? I remembered that that style of writing, my style of writing, helped me form a career in writing. That style of writing, my style of writing, is what helped me stand out amongst my colleagues and peers… in the beginning.
I feel like I’ve definitely gotten away from that style of writing. I’ve also been feeling left behind and forgotten. Some of it a hell of my own making. Some of it could be because I’m not doing good work anymore. Being on Instagram just makes me sad because I see so many of my colleagues doing wonderful things and collaborating with each other…and I’m just…here. Is it possible to simultaneously be happy for them and sad for yourself?
TL:DR - NO TRIGGER WARNINGS.
I felt like grandma was my best friend and definitely one of my favorite cooks. Grandma's cooking was love. I lived with grandma for a short period of time after mami kicked me out. Mami, having never returned to her own mother’s house since she moved out at 18, knew that the arrangement between grandma and me wouldn’t last long. And it didn’t.
My special spot in grandma’s house was the chair that sat against the patio sliding glass window and facing the living room. I’d often silently sit at the kitchen table and just watch grandma sew or cook. Carne Bif was often on the menu. A pyramid shaped can would emerge from the cabinets and then slowly opened by carefully…so very carefully…spinning the metal key around the can, the paper from the label gradually being collected into a neat roll. One false move and the key would separate from the can and you were left to your own devices on how to open the can.
Imagine being comforted by the smell of corned beef stewed down in tomato sauce, sofrito and papas, then served over white rice. Sometimes a mound of canned yellow corn accompanying it. Now, imagine being comforted by that smell whilst trying to grasp the idea of what your grandma said to you the next day. All because grandma saw a photo on the spare bedroom’s wall of me hugging my best girl friend. “If you're gay, I'll never talk to you again,” the shrill campo cadence rang out until my 15-year-old ears were ringing.