Recipes are potions. Some are designed to heal, some to stimulate, others to bond. Every meal prepared with intention is magical and special. My approach to cooking is deeply influenced by the idea that each cook comes with their own ingredients, their history, that makes each recipe unique. To understand the cook is to understand the meal. 
I come from a powerful line of brujas and healers.
My Cuban grandmother was a loud, large, dangerous Santera that no one crossed. My grandfather, a revolutionary that fought alongside Che, was forbidden from speaking politics in the house. After the revolution, when religious persecution swept over Havana, she put a giant portrait of Castro behind her giant portrait of Jesus Christ and would flip the frame when El Partido came by the house. She was irreverent. She’d throw a cast iron skillet at you for looking at her sideways. They say I am her in the flesh. 
She would adorn me with azabaches and bless me with oil. Her magic on me is undeniable and I’m certain my love of food began with those bowls of boiled yucca and plantains she’d stuff me with.
My Mexican grandmother was her foil in every way. Soft-spoken, gentle and refined, she raised me to eat slowly, blow on my soup and always serve others first. As soon as I could sit up, she would place me in the kitchen and hand me a garlic clove. I was told to peal the garlic and with two tiny hands, I did. 
One of my first memories is watching her evil eye charms dangle from her wrists and fingers as she fed me. She would bless me every morning and every night – En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo. Amén she’d say. She would tacitly administer her magic through Hans Christian Anderson tales, walks in the park and sopa de albondigas. Where my Cuban grandmother was life exploding, my Mexican grandmother was ethereal.
And then there’s my mother… a domestic goddess she is not. I wouldn’t even call her a decent cook. She found her calling as a healer in Western medicine. When she left her practice in Mexico to become a stay-at-home mom in Southern California, she was starved for blood. She would become almost giddy when I would scrape my knee or required a stitch. She’d pull out her instruments and get right to work like 10 years hadn’t gone by. 
She would give our doctors and dentists unsolicited advice, so much so that our dentist banned her from his office. No, No! She’d scold them. That antibiotic won’t work on her. Give her Bactrim. Where did you study medicine? The U.S.? She taught me to question everything, to notice symptoms, to recognize patterns and to follow instinct above all else. Her magic was torn from her by misogyny, migration and motherhood, but sometimes, I see that spark in her eyes whenever I cut my finger.
I am all the things that came before me. I have digested pieces of them, their love, their salted tears, and trace their faces on dumplings and cakes. Like apparitions of Jesus on toast, my grandmothers manifest in caldos and stews. They speak to me through the grains at the end of a café con leche and the smell of garlic that never seems to leave my hands. As I carve through chicken, I understand my mother’s joy at the sight of blood and I thank her for inheriting the precision that keeps my fingers intact. My food is a composite of these women. Food is history. Food is magic. Food is healing.
I’d love to hear about the magical womyn in your life. Click through to share your memories, recipes and thoughts in the comments.
The Queer Housewife 