Mango

Story by Rubi Valentin, Summer 2021

Mangoes remind me of summer. When it’s out of season, they’re like unripe jades piercing at you in the grocery store. I believe they taste sweeter when you’re trying to cool down from the beaming sun. To obtain them, you must wait until warmer weather for them to be sold in the back of vendors’ trucks. 

Mango con limon y chile is a staple flavor for most Mexicans. From  paletas in broken piñatas, to mangonadas from La Michoacana, our collective joy for mangoes keeps our hands sticky and bellies satisfied. In elementary,  I remember how children would swarm around our local street vendors nearly everyday after a long day of public education. We would have our dollars reaching out and ask politely in Spanish for our rounds of elotes, raspados, and various fruits. Before walking to school, I would remember to bring some cash to buy my cup of sliced mango and if I ever forgot, a friend would hand me a dollar or two. Due to their kindness and my gratitude, my mango was much sweeter and  I savored every bite.

In India, where mangoes originated over four thousand years ago, they’re titled as the sacred fruit. Although mangoes aren’t native to Mexico, their seeds were brought to the Americas as a result of colonization. During my awkward tween years, I visited Guerrero, Mexico, with my father to see cousins, aunts, and uncles whom I never met before. Consequently, the state of Guerrero has the highest production of mangoes in the country, so the fruit is abundant. I reluctantly spoke the Spanish I felt embarrassed to practice back at home. The motherland consisted of the hot sun, mountains, dry lands, and nopales everywhere— it was a drastic change to Chicago’s polar vortexes and concrete landscape. In the beaches of Acapulco, walking up and down the coast were folks selling bracelets, drinks, and yummy mangos that they cut into flowers. I remember being so mesmerized and taken back on how beautiful the mangos looked, so of course I bought one and ate it. The chile stuck to the apples of cheeks and the fruit’s juiciness ran down my chin on my shirt. My hands were sticky and smelled of sweet mango--- I was a messy child.

Years later, I like to bite off the peels of my mangoes and pull them back with my teeth. The juices run down my fingers and chin as I carve out the fruit. The fine hairs get stuck in between my two front teeth, so I use my  tongue to move them away. I don’t use the knife to cut my fruit, even if I’m 20, I’m still scared to cut myself. I always ask my mom to use the knife for me, and serve us the mangoes in slices. My mom always eats the center, biting around the large seed. She hands me the large half and the other half to my sister in her high-chair. She giggles while she plays with her food, throwing  it onto the floor and getting it in curly hair that looks exactly like mine. With shiny eyes and a bright smile, she reaches her sticky hand out to give me a piece of her mango. I sit on the floor and open my palm to her, and I feel her love radiating onto me.

Tulips

Story by Nia Cunningham, Summer 2021

Growing up my parents continuously exposed me to their love of flowers, kicking off my relationship with nature. My dad still, to this day, gets my mom a bouquet of flowers to show his appreciation for her. I remember coming home from school tired and ready to fall asleep. However, when I walked into the kitchen, I was surprised by an astonishing fresh bouquet, emanating a sweet spring fragrance that he had bought for her. Often the bouquet would be filled with Tulips, one of their favorite flowers, which they specifically adored for their perennial qualities. My mom calls tulips the “resilient flower” for continuing to bloom year after year. Tulips in the past were very popular because of this feature and often symbolized a new season, perfection, love, prosperity and beauty. In 17th century Holland, there was a tulip frenzy where people were so obsessed with the precious bulbs that they would pay a fortune. Some would bid $2,500 of today's currency in order to be the owner of a precious Tulip bulb. Tulips in my life, rather than fortune, represent the resilience I needed in order to be myself. 

Tulips have been a part of my built environment in different ways. Every sunday I would walk up the snake like path into my church that was surrounded by radiant pink and yellow tulips. Walking into church, the tulips reminded me of the resilience I needed to carry in order to survive the sermon and walk back out to see the blossoms again. I have always had a complicated relationship with religion. Mainly because I spent 18 years of my life listening to my uncle preach sermons that told me that I was going to hell for being queer. Not being comfortable within my own skin created issues within other areas of my life, specifically the relationship with my parents. I wasn’t able to talk to them about my sexuality until last semester. After covid isolation, self reflection, therapy, and some breakdowns I felt like I was ready to air my grievances to my parents. I had felt prepared to talk to them for about a week, and one day I went on a walk to get out of my dorm room. Walking down Halsted street in the blowing wind, I saw a clump of pink tulips protruding out of the desolate ground. Freshly bloomed, they reminded me of my resilience. Those tulips gave me hope, and reminded me of the joy I would have seeing a big bouquet of them on my kitchen table. Tulips remind me of the good and bad. That going through life there will always be a need for resilience, but also a need for love, joy, and balance. That day my parents coincidentally called me to have  breakfast with them, and I happily obliged. After picking me up we drove down to a new breakfast place my mom wanted to try. The restaurant was decently crowded and there were white circular tables in the middle, with deep red leather booths surrounding the perimeter. We were just having small talk while being seated and giving the waiter our orders. I don’t remember how the conversation about my upbringing and sexuality came about, but I just told them everything that had been on my mind. I spoke on my upbringing, and how I felt like there wasn’t ever any space for me to be who I am. We spoke about religion and how traumatic it was for me, and critical questions that I have always wanted to ask. The conversation was a bit hectic at first, but after the food had come I had made my peace and in result felt free to be more me.

Oregano

Story by Ashley Cruz, Summer 2021

The distinctive, bitter smell that comes from the oregano plant is unique, but I don’t like the strong smell. In the meals I consume everyday, oregano is in the meal or on the side. I just remove the leaves since I do not like to eat it and it takes up space in my meal. Over time, during family visits or shopping for groceries, I noticed my mom becoming excited over oregano since it’s a necessary plant for her recipes. In addition, she would grab a lot of oregano, smell it, and smile but I do not share the same excitement. She also asks my dad if he can bring some home from his restaurant job. Once I told my mom about the Heritage Garden and how oregano is being grown on campus, she asked me to bring her some. I decided to ask her about the significance of the plant in her life and what she uses oregano for.

According to my mom,  most of my family members use oregano to give their meals more flavor and has used it herself for 23 years. She stated that my grandma is mostly known to put oregano in every meal she made since my grandma was a teenager. It is a common plant found in Oaxaca, which tends to have warm weather with decent rainfall. My mom puts oregano in foods such as pollo enchilado, pollo al horno, barbacoa, and pozole. She mixes other spices with the plant to make the food have more taste. In addition, my mom has stomach pain and uses oregano to make tea or uses it if she has inflammation. Oregano is known to have rich antioxidants and helps reduce inflammation, nausea, sore throats, and plenty more.

Overall, the oregano plant has received generational love from my mom, my grandma, and other family members. What surprised me is how powerful oregano can be to reduce stomach pain and inflammation. I hope in the near future I can share the love for the plant and can pass it on to future generations. As of right now, I’m starting to embrace the strong bitter smell of oregano.

Feeding the Community

Story by Danay Barrera, Summer 2020

When my mom was growing up in her small village in Mexico, she had no refrigerator or even electricity to run anything. What they did have were pigs, chickens, cows, and goats. Being that the area where she lived is called Tierra Caliente, or “Hot Land,” I asked her how they kept meat dishes, specifically my favorite, costillas en chile verde, from spoiling. She told me that whenever they killed one of their livestock animals, they would invite the whole community to eat. If someone couldn’t come, a plate of food would be taken to them.

My mom said that it was understood amongst the villagers that the next time someone in the village killed a pig, for example, everyone would be invited to eat. It was as if people took turns feeding the community. They also had a trade system for meat. One could ask to “borrow” meat on the day of the killing and then return meat from their animals on another day. There were some who did not own livestock, but they wouldn’t be left out of these events. Those who wouldn’t be able to pay back the food would contribute by helping prepare it, collecting firewood, or cleaning up afterwards.

As someone who grew up in the U.S with less of a community mindset and more of an individualistic one, I was surprised to hear about their practices. I was also pleased. The level of care and trust that has been building since the beginnings of her village allowed them to make such a system work. I hardly know the people who live on the same block as me, but everyone knew each other in my mom’s village. A tight-knit community is a wonderful concept to me.

I noticed that my mom still holds some of that community mindset. She makes bread to sell to conocidos, but she’ll throw in a few extra pieces for free every once in a while. I told her that I thought it was a bad business move, but she brushed my comment aside. She will also sometimes make a lot of food (enough to feed a village) and invite family and friends to eat.

She mentioned, though, that in the U.S, she feels like she can’t give food to the neighbors because they might not be used to our food. They might come from different regions of Mexico or different regions of the world. She worries that if she gives our food to strangers and it makes them sick, she could get in trouble for it. She also said that she doesn’t give away food to strangers if they don’t need it.

Despite her concerns about giving food to desconocidos, I recently witnessed her invite a paletera to a plate of enchiladas. My mom was making them outside, and while the paletera was showing my cousins which ice pops she had, my mom asked her if she wanted to sit and eat. The paletera tried to pay my mom for the meal, but my mom refused. I think my mom just wanted to give this old lady a chance to sit. After her meal, the paletera said “I really was hungry,” and it reminded me of how grateful I am for the way my mom was raised. Hopefully her desire to feed her community will continue to rub off on me, so I can feed others and influence them to do the same. With high wealth gaps and unequal access to healthcare, education, and housing, our community in Chicago could use a system of community members to care and look out for each other.

Beans

Story by Alejandro Gomez, Summer 2020

For me right now, beans are abundant and something we can basically get anywhere. I find myself often taking for granted the fact that these foods are so accessible to me. But the history that my dad has with them is different. My father grew up in Guadalajara, Mexico in the 1960’s. He had 15 other siblings, and food wasn’t easy to get all the time. I feel that now as opposed to when my dad was in Mexico,  meat is more common for my family than it is a luxury. This was not the case for my father who was lucky if he got a piece of meat once a month when he was growing up. His family relied heavily on the less expensive things like corn and beans. 

Currently one can go to almost any grocery store in the U.S and find all kinds of tortillas and beans. Black and pinto beans or flour and corn tortilla, for example. But in the 60’s my grandmother used to buy the dried corn and crush it herself in order to make the paste that is used to create tortillas. She would have to wake up at around 4 am everyday to make sure that the food was ready for all 16 of her children. After everyone ate breakfast and went on their way (most of the boys went to work instead of school and the girls would go to school), she would have to clean the house and go to the store to get what she needed to make dinner. My father always talked about how he would get home from work and there would be a jug filled with fresh water and a big pot full of boiling beans. 

When my father came to the US, things were very different than in Mexico. People looked different, and they spoke different languages. The stores didn’t have the products that he was familiar with in them. It was hard for him to get used to living here. Something that he did find that reminded him of home was beans. They weren’t the same fresh raw beans that his mom would cook for him, but they were beans. In the U.S, the beans were already packaged in cans and were usually baked already. This worked for my dad because he didn’t really know how to make them; the can made it easier for him.  

Now my father and I make beans almost everyday. Since I decided to stop eating meat three years ago, beans have been a good source of protein, and I try to include them in most of my meals. It's interesting to see how my father grew up relying on beans for sustenance and now, almost 40 years later, I am relying on beans for nourishment. 

Chickpeas

Story by Sasha Friedman, Summer 2020

Chickpeas are a staple throughout the world. They can be seen in use all over southwest Asia, the Middle East, and the Mediterranean. Their versatility means that they can be used to make a wide variety of dishes ranging from curries and soups to salads and dips. I can even vividly remember meals in my household where there were chickpeas at the core of every dish. There were days when my meals consisted of chickpea salad, falafel, and hummus. The whole of this spread was made with chickpeas, though pita bread (sadly not made with chickpeas) was also present. Whether ground to a paste or cooked whole the main ingredient of the day remained the same throughout.

Versatility is just one among the many reasons that chickpeas are a mainstay in the variety of cultures that they hold their position in. They are also capable of growing in a wide range of temperatures and soil types which allows them to grow in hotter climates such as the Middle East and Southern Asia as well as climates in the North-West of the United states. Their widespread availability has led to them having a number of different names like grams, garbanzo beans, and Egyptian peas alongside their name as chickpeas. As a component of so many culturally diverse dishes chickpeas likely hold an important place in many people’s connections with their culture.

For me, chickpeas are a reminder of my Grandmother, who I get to see around once a year nowadays, who always cooks using chickpeas whenever I’m with her. Her falafel outshines the best I’ve had in any stand, and her extra lemony hummus is always delicious. When I was younger I disliked the slight bitterness of hummus but my grandmother started putting in extra lemon juice to offset it just for me and her other grandkids who were probably too picky for our own good. Thanks to her, these foods which come from chickpeas will forever remind me of my family. This is especially true in recent years when my mother and father have tried (and succeeded in my opinion) of flavoring these dishes just the right way to harken back to my grandmother’s cooking. In this way chickpeas are a very important plant, and eventually food, to me and my family.

Isle of the Arnica Flowers

Story by Zuleyma, Summer 2020

Last year my family had to face a difficult situation. My mom decided to get plastic surgery and her surgical area was done poorly. It was hard on all of us to see her wound since we could see her muscles that are under the skin. The difficult part was purchasing medicine since it was expensive. Other doctors did not want to touch the wounded area until it completely healed. Arnica is an herb that my mom suggested  to use. This helped my family in assisting my mom’s wound. We used Arnica to help the wound heal faster. It was inexpensive and it was found in almost every mexican market. I was concerned that my mom relied on arnica because I had more trust on western medicine than a herb. I had to ask her why she chose this herb.   

Bringing up arnica with my mother brought back vivid memories of her childhood. She remembers collecting arnica with her family when someone got injured. Arnica is a flower found on the mountains of Michoacan, Mexico. The yellow flower likes to grow in scattered areas. My mom explained that this herb was used in her pueblo because many people couldn’t afford to travel long distances to a hospital or purchase medication. Many like to boil the petals from the arnia and drink it as tea or crush the petals and place it on their wound. According to my mom, this herb is used to prevent infections on the wound and helps the body heal faster. She learned how to use this herb from her mother. 

Overtime, she kept drinking arnica tea and her wound healed. I can’t underestimate the strength of a flower's properties and second guess the teachings of my mom. This plant helped me learn the ideas and innovations created by people from impoverished communities used to overcome adversities. This flower is significant to my family because it was able to help someone we all love, my mom. Each time I go to a mexican market I make sure to walk to the isle of the arnica flowers packaged in bags to thank them for helping my family.

Bamboo

Story by Grace Fick, Summer 2020

From a young age, food has been a way for me to connect to my heritage. I have early memories of standing on a chair next to my grandmother and mother in the kitchen. My mom was cutting the bamboo, passed it on to me so I could soak it in water, then I would pass it to my grandmother for her to put into a pot. My favorite food is commonly known as Gang Nor Mai, or bamboo soup and to this day, my mother always makes it for me for any special occasions. Not only is bamboo used in different dishes, but it is used as kitchenware and my family still uses it in everyday life. My family would often serve sticky rice in bamboo baskets of all sizes and I always recall trying to get my tiny hands on those delicate, spherical-shaped pieces of rice. The time that I consume in the kitchen and dinner table with my mom is a labor of curiosity that brings me much fulfillment as I get a tiny glimpse of what my mom experienced in Laos. Each homemade meal, I acquire little details of how rambunctious her brothers were and the games they would play with each other. About their adventures through the rainforest and villages surrounding them. My mom and her family came to the US, they wanted to keep their traditions alive. Bamboo was a staple in their life and they continued to use it throughout all of their lives. My mom talked about her musical instruments being made out of bamboo and mounting bamboo stalks to build houses all throughout her village. Being miles away from any big city, Laotian village populations relied on fishing and with an abundance of bamboo, fisherman carved bamboo into intracquite fishing spears, hooks and poles. Bamboo was also used as a medium to write letters to neighboring villages and family members. 

As a symbol of beauty, bamboo has a great emphasis on a character of moral integrity, modesty and loyalty. It also symbolizes strength and resilience as bamboo can withstand many different climates and even though it is lightweight, it has more tensile strength than steel or timber. Back in Laos, my mom’s home was essentially made out of bamboo. This particular bamboo provided my mom and her brothers with shelter, safety, and comfort in times of distress (more than any mass-produced material ever could). The bamboo my family uses today still exemplifies their tenacity amidst the struggles they have faced dating back generations. Bamboo holds such a remarkable place in our hearts and to showcase its versatility is an everyday reminder of what my family has overcome. The traditions and memories I have with bamboo in the kitchen are ones I hope to pass onto future generations as not only a way to make dishes more flavorful, but as a keepsake that symbolizes the courage and resilience of my mother and her family.

Baobab Tree

Story by Yasmin Isa, Summer 2020

Baobab Tree also known as Kuka in Hausa is a traditional plant in the northern part of Nigeria. It is mostly used in cooking food such as Tuwo and Dan’ wake. Tuwo is a rice and stew combination where the rice is beaten to a pulp and Dan’ wake is a dumpling type entree usually eaten with pepper. Baobab fruit is edible, and baobab leaves are used in foods because of their nutrients, possible health benefits, and are known as natural preservatives. The fruit is a good source of vitamin C, potassium, carbohydrates, and phosphorus. It is found inside hard pods that hang upside down from the tree. When fully grown the shell of the fruit takes the shape of an ovoid. This hard shell covered in hair protects the fruit. 

The reason why this plant resonates with me very much is because it reminds me of home. The smell of it takes me back to family dinners at my cousins’ house. It is one of the few things that we have in our house that I feel really transforms our house to a Huasa house due to the aroma. When I was about 9 to 10 years old I was playing with my sister in our backyard. We were pretending the ground was lava and we were only allowed to walk on the curbside. I slipped and fell on my arm. I did not feel anything at the time but I was constantly rubbing my arm. I did not tell my parents as I did not think it was a big deal. However, my dad noticed and took me to the hospital where they put a cast on my arm. It turned out I fractured a bone. After a few weeks I had it removed but my arm did not feel quite right. I was still massaging it from time to time and had some difficulty holding heavy objects with that arm. There was also a huge bump running down my arm from my palm to my elbow. My dad was convinced something was not right. 

My dad took me to a local herbalist doctor in his hometown. It was the first time I met the doctor but I found out we had history with him. When my dad broke his arm this doctor was the one that treated him. The doctor started  rubbing a green paste on my arm which I later found out was kuka mixed in with other herbs. He then made me a traditional cast constructed from wood and rope. The doctor told my dad and I to rub the paste on my arm after every three days and after two weeks I should take off the cast. Two weeks came and I took off my cast and was astonished to find that my arm had healed. The bump that sat on my arm before was gone and I could finally write in cursive again. There are many plants out there with amazing powers but kuka found a special place in my heart

Cabbage

Story by Mechiya Jamison, Summer 2020

Both my mother and father’s sides of the family have deep roots in GulfPort, Mississippi. My father and my mother’s mother, both raised on farms, look back fondly on every living being they encountered and cultivated throughout their childhood. My father recounts standing under towering mulberry trees, waiting for the plump mulberries that would fall from the branches every so often. I can almost see the 10 year old version of my father chasing the lively chickens that clucked and scurried across fields of green. I can vividly imagine my grandmother tilling the rich Mississippi soil with her parents in the sweltering heat, preparing the lands for the large harvest  of cabbage they would acquire later that summer. They would use this cabbage to sustain themselves for months to come. 

Their experiences have gifted me a fond and symbolic relationship with cabbage. This relationship began during my childhood. Both my grandmother and my father have their own similar and delicious cabbage dishes. When my grandmother would visit us, she would prepare her cabbage in a large, spotted soup pot with beef broth, onions, neckbones, heaps of cayenne pepper and ham hocks. Throughout the winter season, my father would prepare his cabbage in a silver pot with garlic, onions, turmeric, and chicken broth. Both dishes would be topped with hot sauce. These were my favorite dishes as a child as the warmth and hardy flavors made me feel relaxed, safe, and supported. I would go back for seconds and thirds without shame. I recently felt this same rush of emotions after visiting my grandmother during the winter. 

When I visited my grandmother this past winter, she made me cabbage with onions, vegetable broth, and okra to accomodate my vegan diet. Eating her cabbage for the first time in years reminded me of how much I love the dish and the history it holds in my family. After my visit, I decided to redevelop my personal relationship with cabbage. I discovered that they are very affordable with their price ranging from 80 cents to a dollar. Additionally, the leaves stay fresh for months which is very pleasing to my wallet. I’ve developed my own cabbage recipes such as cabbage stir fry, coconut curry cabbage, and a raw cabbage salad. I’ve learned that cabbage has detoxifying properties;it is a great source of Vitamin C and K, and antioxidants. Navigating adulthood in the midst of a global pandemic, a revolution, and climate crisis can be strange, and often feels aimless. Returning to plants that have nourished my development and those before me has helped me ground myself and establish a clearer perspective on who I am, who I was, and where i’m going.

Fig

Story by Alejandro Gomez, Summer 2020

A fig is a fruit that I had heard a lot about as I was growing up, my father talked about the sweet center and how it reminded him of  Mexico. My father’s childhood was difficult because he had to help his father support his family. He started working at the age of 9 and he rarely had time to be a kid because he was always working or in class. One of the ways that he got to relax was by buying fruit from the local fruit stands that were abundant in Guadalajara. One of the fruits that he loved to buy was Higo, or fig. The sweet and soft fruit was something that made my father appreciate the little things because he found joy in taking a break to consume the fruit. Whenever he had the chance to buy that fruit, he would, but my father left Mexico at the age of 18. Since he left almost 40 years ago he hasn’t been able to find or buy figs. As he told me his many stories of the fig I still wasn’t able to connect the image with my own experiences. 

This changed when I joined the Heritage Garden in 2019. As I was helping the group plant one day, I was intrigued by the small round fruit that hung from a short tree, I asked “what is this?” and to my excitement, I learned that it was a fig tree. I went home that day and told my dad that the garden had a fig tree, and the first thing he asked was “can you bring me one?” Throughout the year I was able to see the fig tree grow, but the fruit didn’t seem to be coming out or ripening. I was disappointed because I wasn’t able to share the fruit with my father. But at the end of the summer I received the news that there was one fig that made it and it was ready to eat. I tried it in the Latino Cultural Center and it was just as I imagined it when my father explained it to me. The skin was a colorful purple and green and the interior was soft and sweet. I went home with the news and my dad kept saying “I told you so!” But the real excitement came when the garden informed me that I would be able to take a fig tree home with me. My father was elated, and we began to set up a place to put this tree to keep over the winter. To this day we still care for it and we are waiting anxiously for the fruit to ripen. The fig has made my father and I connect more because now I can imagine an aspect of his life that I couldn’t before.

Jasmine

Story by Sakina Ghatalah, Summer 2020

The smell of a jasmine flower is extremely distinct, so much so that it can be identified as a bud. The airy and pleasant smelling Jasmine flower is found to originate from Iran and spread to other lands as early as 1000 B.C. It’s story mirrors that of different groups of Persians who migrated to other lands within Asia, like my grandfather's family. Not only did Persians help with its movement, the smell itself enchanted many western countries into adopting the plant. My grandfather's family came from Iran to Hyderabad, an independent state at the time. There was always some level of conflict between Hindus and Muslims in India, but I like to think that the usage of this little flower binds the two groups, both of them using it for celebrations and happy occasions. 

Traditionally, garlands for celebrations of all kinds are made with jasmine and roses. While the thought of hundreds of buds on a single garland can seem overwhelming to the senses, it's actually very light in fragrance and complements the roses perfectly. The garlands with the jasmine and roses are also used in marriages by most people in Southeast Asia. Newlyweds are adorned with heavy jasmine and rose garlands, a symbol for pure love. 

The smell of jasmine is associated with many happy memories for me. Many Middle Eastern and Southeast Asian countries use the jasmine flower to make itaar, which is a perfume you apply directly onto your skin and rub. My sisters and I would sit at the door on Eid after Ramadan and offer to put the perfume on family members or friends that poured in to celebrate eid, for a price of course.

For most of my childhood, I remember my grandparents and my mom taking us up this mountain called Maula ka Pahaar. Huge rock formations made up the whole mountain, but it was small enough to climb in half an hour. The path to the top was littered with different mosques and homes. The rocks people walked upon had been outlined with a white paint to indicate a path and some steps, yet there were no actual steps; there were just huge, steep rocks that people climbed to honor the first Imam, or leader, of Shia Islam. People from all backgrounds make the journey to the top, there is no barricade for Hindus or Muslims or Sikhs or Chiristians or any other person. One thing people making the journey to the top usually had in common was they took up this little wet bag with jasmine and rose garlands and placed it at the entrance. The smell encompassing the mountain was blessed by the blooming of jasmines and nighttime meant an amplified scent would travel with the pleasant winds of Hyderabad. 

 Safe to say, The flower called “Queen of the night” (it is said to release more fragrance at night) is everywhere and has a plethora of functions all over the world. Whether it be the itaar applied for everyday, in the incense being burned, part of the tea being brewed, or jasmine infused oil being caressed into a young daughters hair by her mother, jasmine flower holds significance to each beholder.

Green Tomatoes

Story by Keyana Robinson, Summer 2020

There was so much that came to mind when thinking of plants that resonate with me. Most of my memories revolve around grass and trees and hugs from the sun. Outside, a love of mine was my majestic home as a child. The grass was my bed, the backyard breeze, my fan, and the sun and moon were my light.

Nature is where my most beautiful memories reside. My grandmother built my relationship with plants. She was raised in St. Louis Missouri, where it was hot and family was close. She moved farther north when she was a teen when she married my grandfather and carried her love for  food that her mother, my great-grandmother gave her. I’d go to her house, to her job, a crisis nursery , where she’d show me tomatoes and cucumbers and I’d wonder what she would make.  As a picky eater, I didn’t love eating everything, but I did love her fried green tomatoes. No one makes them like my grandmother. 

Both of us love the color green; I get that from her. The love of life and the love of flavor... Days when she would make fried green tomatoes were always memorable. We would eat and talk, and I’d always remember green and smiles surrounded by love. Somehow the day would get better, with tiny slices of flavored green. 

My grandmother continues to cook. She makes recipes that her mother made, my mother makes, and that I will make one day… of course with my own touch. Tomatoes are our love; fried green tomatoes, filled with stories, love, memories, and hope. Granny continues to feed me these slices of green, that remind her of money, full bellies, and joy, and that remind me of her.

My authentic self

Story by Eyzel Torres, Summer 2020

I grew up in a Mexican household where food and the art of cooking is valued greatly due to its ability of bringing people together. The food that my family prepared was usually very spicy because Mexican cuisine tends to use a lot of hot peppers. However, I didn’t really enjoy the spiciness of the food when I was younger. Fortunately for me, not all peppers are spicy- some are actually mild or can even be sweet! One of my favorite peppers happens to be on the milder side: the Poblano pepper. This type of pepper originated in Puebla, México and is used to make a dish called chiles rellenos, which translates to “stuffed peppers.” And although my family is not from Puebla, this dish is still one of my favorites because it reminds me of my family and our culture. 

I’ve always appreciated my family’s heritage but I have also struggled with feeling disconnected to our native country, México. This is mostly because I was born in the United States and never had the opportunity to visit my family’s mother country; therefore, I felt that I didn’t really know México enough. However, my mom helped me make a valuable connection when she taught me how to make chiles rellenos. The dish consists of Poblano peppers that are stuffed with cheese, covered in an egg mixture, and fried. We had fun going through the steps while she talked to me about her own life experiences and what cooking means to her as a Mexican-American. Our hands (and even my forehead) were full of flour, egg, and cheese but I felt happy being able to share those moments with her. 

Learning how to make this dish may be a small aspect of my culture, but it is definitely an important part of it. I think that Poblano peppers are a beautiful type of pepper because they’re a reminder that I don’t have to fit a certain mold in order to be Mexican, American, or Mexican-American; I just have to be my authentic self and that is enough. They will forever be a symbol of love for my family, my culture, and of myself in my head, heart, and soul.

Spinach

Story by Danay Barrera, Summer 2020

I was not a healthy kid. Much of my diet consisted of frozen meals and prepackaged food. My mom worked a lot, and as a consequence was not able to cook meals for my siblings and I from scratch every day. The meals that she did cook were not always healthy. My mom learned to cook the meals she grew up eating as a kid when her family didn't have access to a lot of produce. The lack of fresh produce was negatively impacting my health. I remember that during one of my doctor’s appointments, in middle school, my doctor advised me that I needed to watch my weight because I was getting too heavy. This in turn negatively affected my self-esteem, and it didn’t help that my own mother would point out my weight. While the foods I ate tasted good in my mouth, I knew that they weren’t good for my body- inside or out.

I think the first time I heard about spinach was when my aunt was making herself a green smoothie. She was raving about the health benefits of the fruit and vegetable packed drinks. I thought they tasted kind of gross, but that’s what healthy food tastes like, right? At least that’s what I used to think. Spinach, I discovered, doesn’t taste gross. It actually doesn’t taste like much. It has a very subtle, green, clean taste (unless you try different varieties of spinach; some of them are pretty bitter).

Eventually, I started putting spinach in my sandwiches, fruit smoothies, and mixed with the food my mom cooked for us. It was an easy way to add nutrition to my meals. It helped me feel better about what I was eating, and it encouraged me to try other healthy foods. Spinach functioned as a gateway green to kale. Now, my meals are much more fruit and vegetable heavy. I have a better relationship with food and my body.

Medicine is All Around Us

Story by Renae Mijares Encinas, Summer 2020

Phyllanthus niruri is a tropical plant that grows in certain coastal areas. An abundance of phyllanthus niruri grows on the land my family lives on in the Philippines which is directly off the seacoast. My family calls it taltalikod in Ilokano (the regional language used by my maternal family in Ilocos Sur), which translates into “back-to-back” after the ways its leaves literally grow back-to-back. While certain plants like taltalikod are often cast aside simply as “weeds,” many people, such as my family, regard these plants as our greatest medicines. During a month-long stay with my family in 2018, I’d become prey to something that left me with what looked like bug bites and bruises all over my body. No matter what precautions I took, including copious amounts of bug repellant, the marks continued to expand over my body. “They like your blood--American blood is sweeter” my family told me as a way to explain why only I was afflicted. After two weeks, my grandma told me that a doctor was coming to check out my marks. Coming from the United States, I’d expected a conventional Western doctor with pills and all, so I was surprised when she arrived and I realized she was a shaman and herbal healer like the ones my parents’ generation told me stories of. After performing a ritual that involved grains of rice and water, she divined the cause of my pains: I had disrespected the dwende (tiny gnome-like creatures that humans cannot see) that live on and protect the tree that I had poured water all over (to cool off a puppy from the heat). While the majority of Filipinos, including my family, are Catholic as a result of Spanish colonialism, our indigenous spiritualities and animism still prevail. In Filipino superstition, creatures and spirits live all around us, and we must pay our respects to them. It is common to say “excuse me” or to ask for permission before stepping onto land and to always be respectful to all living beings in nature. After being reminded of this, the doctor and my aunt left to gather medicine. They returned with handfuls of taltalikod. I was told “stop using your ointment--this is your medicine now.” When I asked my grandma why they chose this specific plant, she expressed that the best medicine is what’s closest and all around us. I was given the taltalikod to boil with water in a cauldron and was instructed to pour it all over my body daily until it ran out. After three days of bathing in the taltalikod herbal tea as prescribed, I stopped getting more welts and bruises for the remainder of my stay and my marks started healing. When my four-year old cousin visited a couple months ago, a similar thing happened to him, and he was also given taltalikod baths to heal him. Despite whatever doubts people have about shamanism, the effectiveness of herbal remedies, or its “scientific backing,” generations of my family have relied on these methods—to this day.

Aloe Vera

Story by Sana Murtaza Bhalli, Summer 2019

Being raised by my mom in Pakistan taught me a lot about different plants and her love for gardening. Our house was filled with different plants such as jasmine flowers, pomegranate trees, and Aloe vera. My mom is very devoted to her plants, especially when it comes to taking care of them and thinking about the benefits of these plants. One example is Aloe vera, a plant that has multiple uses and can improve your mental health. My mom used it as her beauty gel. My dad buys it because he is a diabetic patient with a stomach ulcer and it helps him digest food correctly while keeping nutrients in balance. I use it to get rid of my pimples. I would get irritated with how passionate my mom is about her plants. When they die, she cries for two or three days, which is a little funny to me. Even when there is a boiling temperature in Pakistan above 100 F, she caters to her plants to make sure they are ok. Shockingly, the aloe is the only one that is able to endure such humidity. My brother and I used to water all the plants in the evening when the weather would get a little bit cooler even though it was still hot and hard to breathe. Watering plants in the evening makes you feel calm, and the fragrance of soil is delightful after you are done watering. I felt very refreshed and peaceful in my mind while walking through the garden observing different plants. In my village, not everyone has access to aloe, so people would come to my house to get a piece of it to use as medicine. Aloe vera carries proteins, Vitamins A and C, and is incredibly anti-inflammatory. Through the various uses of aloe vera, I feel it is a very calming and refreshing plant and can make you feel relaxed and rejuvenated.

Caña

Story by Danay Barrera, Summer 2019

Ever wonder why Coca Cola from Mexico tastes different?  We have sugarcane to thank for that. Originally from Asia, but grown around the world, sugarcane thrives in tropical regions. While Cokes from the United States are made with high-fructose corn syrup, the ones in Mexico are sweetened with this readily available plant. My partner’s grandfather and uncles are employed in the plotting, harvesting, and transporting of sugarcane. Some Mexican towns’ economies are completely dependent on its production!

Sugarcane was introduced to me as caña when I went to visit my grandparents in Mexico at the age of eight. It is one of my earliest memories of Mexico and of my grandparents. When my abuelita, placed a short stick of caña in my little hand, I first thought it was a bamboo stick since caña resembles bamboo with its long, greenish-brownish stalks. My abuelita showed me how to properly enjoy caña, “chew on it, but don’t swallow it.” My disappointment about not actually eating what pandas eat was washed away as I bit into the sweet inside of the sugarcane. The purity of the syrup made me forget about the scorching heat and fussy mosquitos.

My next encounter with caña would not be until years later when I spotted it in a traditional Mexican drink called ponche. I recognize ponche as a sweet warm tea that, along with sugarcane, contains other ingredients cherished by fellow Mexicans: guavas, cinnamon, and hibiscus flowers. My relatives in Mexico enjoy this soothing drink during Las Posadas, a series of religious processions that revolves around the story of Mother Mary’s pregnancy. Those of us who live in the United States where Las Posadas are not often practiced enjoy ponche in between laughter and storytelling at Christmas Eve parties. Getting a stick of caña in your cup of ponche is like getting a treat inside of a treat. With the ingredients of ponche, the juices of the caña are taken from a simple, sugary solution, to an aromatic, slightly spicy, slightly fruity concoction. I look forward to my next Christmas Eve ponche that will softly carry me back to the time I shared with my sugary-sweet grandparents in Mexico.

Nopal

Story by Desiree Rosales, Summer 2019

As a child, I never knew where the nopal came from, whether it came from a plant outside or the local market. The nopal, a type of cactus, is a plant that at times can be intimidating to those not familiar with it. From the green and spiky outer layer, to the slimy, juicy center. Every part of the nopal has a use, this is part of what makes it such a versatile plant. From being used in multiple Mexican cuisines, one of which makes the most delicious “nopalitos.” The nopal has played a large part in my life. Growing up in a Mexican household, my mom would make the tastiest Mexican dishes that would occasionally include nopal. When preparing the nopal to cook, you must be sure to remove any spikes on the outer layer, almost as if you are peeling away all the “bad” parts of it. Whenever I indulge on nopal, it is usually diced up into small pieces, cooked, and then served as a side dish with a main dish like carne con chile. Smelling the aroma of the nopal being cooked from the kitchen is one of my favorite childhood memories. Whenever I shared a dinner with my family and the nopal was a dish, it brought my family together in a way that made me feel closer than ever to them. 

The knowledge that my family has of the nopal was carried by grandma as she migrated to the United States of America Another vital use of the nopal is the medicinal properties it offers. Whenever I injured myself with a cut or scrape my grandma would “cure” me with the healing powers of the juice of the nopal. I always envisioned the nopal as something greater than a plant. The nopal had a way of comforting me and creating a bond within my family that still continues to this day.The various uses of the nopal has been around my family for generations. It is something that was passed down from my great grandma, to my grandma, to my mom, and eventually something I will pass down to my children, then grandchildren. The life cycle of the nopal is never endless and grows with every generation. 

Guayaba

Story by Alejandro Gomez, Summer 2019

I’ve vicariously understood what life was like in Mexico through my immigrant parents. I’ve learned about the many remedies and fruits they used to savor. One of those fruits that my father talked highly of was Guayaba or Guava. When I was 8 and first traveled to Mexico, I got the chance to taste the fruit. I was astonished by the sweet taste and unique smell, and ever since, this fruit always stood out to me. This distinctive smell is difficult to describe because it is sweet but also a bit tart. That smell will always have connections to the Mexican markets in my head and that first sensory memory, walking in and seeing the amount of people that were selling this greenish ball, along with many other fruits that were rare in the US. For example, in one corner there were women selling nopales and in another corner there was a family selling limas, which are like lemons but sweet. To this day, when my father brings home Guayabas my mind wanders to those hot days in the markets. He often makes fresh juice out of the fruit that is so sweet, there is no need for additional sugar. My father learned from my grandmother that Guayaba leaves could be used to reduce the inflammation of gums, so he would not only use Guayaba as a refreshment, but also to treat toothaches whenever the pain arose on my little gums. My father was recently diagnosed with diabetes and we worried about his health. He believed that guayaba might be too sweet for him and that it would badly affect his body. After doing research, I discovered that Guayaba contains fibre contents that actually help stabilize blood glucose levels. This was great news because now my father and I can continue enjoying this little piece of Mexico, reminiscing those cherished memories of waking up early in the morning and heading to the nearest market to get the freshest fruits.