Birria.

You probably have realized by now that I hate writing recipes, and when I do I write 5 pages and at least 90% of the content is explaining the why of the technique. I also have to recognize that nowadays all you have to do in order to find a recipe is Google, just type the word "Papaya" and you'll get a thousand options from celebrity chefs (or their ghost writers actually) and I have no intentions to even try to compare myself to any of those people, or even amazing local chefs.

I'll share some recipes here and there, but I guess I have to feel comfortable with that person, of course I like sharing, specially knowledge, but I also think cooking is a very personal thing, when you're creating something the last thing you need is an internet smartass judging you or telling you "That sounds good, but I would do it ..." and in the world of the foodies it's just as common as breathing. I could compare cooks with painters, and foodies with an opinion with art collectors, because it's easier to know everything about art, but they'll never get the most intimate part of the painting.

Basically, I like talking about food, restaurants and traumatic experiences, anything but writing specific recipes, but I will, eventually.

The problem I have with celebrity chefs it's how elitist they can be, they take dishes from all over the world, they appropriate someone's culture and then twist it and say "I did it, I'm awesome" not all celebrity chefs, because I respect many who actually spend time in different countries listening, learning and then sharing it just as is. But there's nothing more heartbreaking than (white) chef going to let's say, Peru, and tell Peruvians "Your food is amazing, mmmm, but.... " OK, at that point you need to go back to Brooklyn mi amigo, and take a seat.

In Latin America at least (and I know it's the same in Africa and Pacific Asia) food is a religious act, it comes from the soul, we are lucky enough to have amazing ingredients from fish to fruits and exotic spices, which are not exotic at all when you live there, there's nothing glamorous about food, but a lot of pride, and of course we like sharing our recipes and food with the world, but it really is an intimate act, you don't want a Food Network person who barely understands Latin America's history telling you "That looks good, but why do you cook veal with vanilla, gross, make a mango salsa ay, ay, ay, ay, ay "

We need to understand that the relationship between Europe/US and Latin America is an abusive one, we take your best ingredients (Thanks NAFTA), we take your ideas, we copyright them and then make you cook for us, but we take credit for it, and by we I mean them, white celebrity chefs.

One specific case I would like to analyze with you is birria. Mexicans have been eating birria and barbacoa for centuries, and before we cooked goats and sheep, we cooked jungle pigs and other creatures in an underground oven. Most barbacoas are cooked in modern ovens today, especially in the U.S. because local authorities think that cooking meat in dirt is somehow a barbaric practice (again, "I'll tell you how to do it better" attitude) but ok, it's still delicious, not like the classic Jalisco style, more like French, and trust me, there's a huge difference.

Anyway, we've been eating and cooking barbacoa and chivos for a long time the same way, and I don't have an exact number of Mexican immigrants in the U.S. right now, I mean I could Google it, but it's a fact I usually don't carry in my wallet just to impress, but we are a lot of Mexicans, since the era of the Braceros to today (and even before when half of the US was Mexico), you'll see food trucks or Mexican restaurants with "Birria, Barbacoa" you can eat probably 5 tacos and a soda for $10, and it's usually a once or twice a week lunch. Well, here comes the celebrity chef that one day had the great idea to "explore" the ghetto and eats in that "exotic" restaurant, picks something that looks "exotic" and it's not a chimichanga, because I still don't know who in hell invented the chimichanga, or the word, it's the most stupid word I've ever heard, But anyway, so this white dude goes to this place, picks something exotic and says "oh my God, this shit is so good" then he tells other white dudes, and these people work for a famous food magazine, they interview the cooks, not for publishing purposes, but just to get the recipe, so the cooks share the recipe.

Now you have an explosion of barbacoa restaurants in Southern California, New York and Chicago and I'm not making this up, but the new restaurants are now operated by rich white people, the cooks with humble restaurants now work for them, but the celebrity chef "owns" the recipe, they get more attention and now it's a thing, eating Barbacoa is the Ray Bans of food.

I wish there was a better way to describe this phenomenon, but it's Christopher Columbus "discovering" America all over again (what? brown people have souls?) and I'm glad that middle-class America is expanding their culinary frontiers, just remember, you didn't discover it, you didn't invent it, you can't reinvent it, you can eat it, you can ask for the recipe, you can cook it at home, etc. but you need to ask in a nice way, you know? stupid consent applies here too.

It's not black or white fortunately, food is universal and brings people of different cultures together.

Leaving Home

Eight years ago I left Mazatlan and I haven't been back ever since.

Two nights before, my friends Ricardo and Rodolfo brought a bottle of whiskey, a tupperware with fresh ceviche and saltines. We sat in the beach and we barely talked, it was half-quarter moon so at least there was something other than the lighthouse to stare at, I can still remember clearly the sound of waves and their spume slowly disintegrating when they pull back. We probably said stupid things and laughed, but we didn't talked about my trip or work. Few hours later, we went to a dance club in the mall, they had live musical, a Salsa and cumbia band from Colombia, just two blocks away from the beach, I walked back home for just an hour of sleep and an obligated shower. Restaurants in Mexico usually tip a small percentage to the kitchen, plus your daily wage, it's not much, but at least you have some cash in your pocket. Every night after work, I would go to my mom's room for the goodnight kiss and leave the money I made in her nightstand, hoping we could save us from an inevitable bankruptcy, losing the home she bought with her retirement money and the restaurant we opened with all of our savings.

I had two jobs, I worked for my mom's restaurant in the morning and by noon I walked one block up, right next to the beach and worked for 12 more hours. In between, I delivered food in my gray Chrysler, went to the market to pick up stuff for both restaurants, go home to walk the dogs and play with them.

Mom's business, that's a whole different story, I will now just say that our sopes and enchiladas de mole were amazing, and our best costumer was former Dodgers star Fernando Valenzuela and a taxi driver that would always order the same thing every day, huevos con chorizo, it was not even in the menu, but we had eggs and chorizo, so we couldn't say no to a costumer.

The other job was a fine-dining restaurant, right in front of the beach. I was a prep cook: handmade tortillas, made the fisherman's soup (I still make and I will share the recipe as well) clean seafood, portion meat, clean meat, marinate stuff, more tortillas (always more tortillas), I was also the busser in busy nights and grilled steaks when our chef didn't show up. Some nights, I stayed in the lobby of the restaurant, like some sort of night-cop or whatever, because that place didn't have windows or many walls, the owners needed someone to stay overnight, that was extra money. With tips and extra money, I was making US$150 a month, and of course I was not making one cent at my mom's restaurant.

My last day in Mazatlan, I didn't have to work at the other restaurant anymore, so I made a special lunch for my mom, brother and girlfriend. I wanted to thank everything they did to help me with my trip, and I said "you don't have to worry, I'm just leaving for three months" -  and that's what I thought, that was my original plan.

Since before we left Mexico City, and to be more specific, since my dad left us, we were chased by some sort of terrifying I don't know what to call it, but I think of a snowball growing and growing and you either turn around and try to stop it or you keep running away from it. It was hell. At that age (15-18) I decided to become a chef, but I knew college was not an option at that moment, I mean, I abandoned my political science path and I didn't know where and how to start a new course.

Many circumstances forced me to just work as hard as possible, sacrificing things I used to enjoy doing, like reading for hours, writing random thoughts (thank God for Twitter and modern tools), I like my quiet times were I can just process ideas and stare at life, I sacrifice that because I knew my mother did the same for us and I feel forever grateful, at some point it was so overwhelming I felt depressed like you can't imagine. Then my brother had a car accident and the bank told my mom that the house she was buying with her savings and retirement, was not going to be built and that they were going to keep 40% of the down payment. The bank said she was not eligible for a credit line, and other stuff we still don't understand. I had some friends in Milwaukee, they offered their help, trying to find a job so I could send money to my mom while staying at their home for few months. So, without knowing much English and not much about Milwaukee other than the classic cliches (Brewers, sausages, cows), and I'm honestly not a person that takes risks that often (but when I do, I surprise myself) my family was my priority, and I couldn't see my brother and mother hurt anymore, so I accepted the offer and immediately talked to my girlfriend about it, she was my best friend and we were dating for more than 5 years, she helped us so much in the Mexico City- Mazatlan transition, She disagreed with the idea, but knew how desperate I was.

It was time to go. My girlfriend, mom and brother drove me down to bus station, I had with me few clothes, some pictures and fifty dollars in cash. I said goodbye to my brother, it was fast but he hugged me for the first time since we were kids. Then my mom, she cried a little, she usually doesn't, she's the rock of the family and I'm not saying crying is a bad thing, but it's something she doesn't enjoy doing in public, and I respect that, and told me "you need to bring your jacket!" that jacket was a horrible All Star jacket with a gigantic Dallas Cowboys Star. So I got on the bus and didn't feel much at that moment, then I saw Lizbeth getting on the bus too with that stupid Dallas Cowboys jacket, she was like "Please, take it" we said goodbye and we both cried "You don't have to go" she said.

When the bus started moving (I was going down to Guadalajara to see my dad and grandmother, they drove from Mexico City just to say goodbye, first time I saw them in two years) I was feeling sick, seriously sick, I was so confused and terrified I can't even describe it, I've never felt that scared in my entire life, full of regret too. I was also mad because we were still mad at my dad, I still am. I accepted seeing him in Guadalajara because I believe in the power of forgiveness without shaming, and I know it's a process that I'm still trying to discover, I'm hopeful but I don't want to force anything, I think one day I will find the correct words and share them with him, without making him feel bad.

Hours before my flight, my grandma and dad joined me for lunch, that was the last time I saw my grandmother (hopefully I'll see her next August, but she doesn't remember much) so it was happening, I was leaving my family and my country, and even when I thought it was going to be for just three months, it was something new to me.

I arrived to Houston and my first reaction was "I cannot believe they named the airport after one of the worst presidents Americans have ever had" then I discretely abandoned my Dallas jacket in the men's room, I regretted that instant once I discovered Milwaukee's tundra (not really, it was 32 degrees, but Mazatlan was around 80) I couldn't believe how not knowing much English was starting to become an obstacle, I was starting to feel dumb, useless and frustrated. That day in Houston, I discovered discrimination in a form I was not familiar with, from the way some people looked at me, to the comments I did understand. I was familiar with discrimination in Mexico, it was usually people like me of European descendent and Mestizos humiliating indigenous and immigrants from Central America, our very black population from Guerrero, sons of slavery and the people that gave us a homeland with their successful uprising against the Spanish crown commanded by Vicente Guerrero. Mexico is also full of contradictions too, and although I didn't feel like I was a racist in my own country, I know my actions were, I was part of a caste system not many see or prefer not to, it's that comfort zone and privilege that keep us unequal, I was 18 and I considered myself a progressive man, that year I was campaigning for the left coalition candidate for president in a Macho-Conservative State, and somehow the campaign worked amazing, we found common ground, poverty, the one I was experiencing too. People from different backgrounds compromised and left their comfort zone and joined a democratic revolution, we were millions and we are still very strong, I know many of you don't see these demonstrations in mass media, and instead we have articles talking about "The Mexican Miracle" or "Saving Mexico" etc, 2006 was the year Mexicans said "Enough" and the right wing won the election by 0.56% the Electoral College (equivalent) rejected our effort to count every single vote, they said a recount would divide the country, so Felipe Calderon, a man no person knew, won and he tried to legitimize his victory with a war no one asked for, a war that transformed my country forever, a Country I don't think I will ever recognize again, he destroyed Mazatlan and the way my community interacted, if life was difficult in Mazatlan before...  Immigration became a diaspora, people leaving entire towns abandoned, cartels and international corporations taking over family owned farms. The Mexico I escaped from was not that terrible, and I didn't feel like escaping, just from poverty, just for a moment.

I love Texas, now, but I was so happy when my plane took off from Houston, and I finally slept for few minutes. When the plane landed, I didn't know how to process everything that just happened. But the first thing I did was to get some coffee at starbucks and get some quarters for the phone, and let my friends know that I arrived.

Salome and her brother picked me up at the airport, but she needed to go back to work, so her brother took me to the IHope by Miller Park, to be honest with you I didn't understand the menu well, so my friend chose for me. He ordered some fish so I could feel like home, that was the most horrible meal I can remember, I was so disgusted but didn't want to show it, then I saw the price, $7.00 that was more than an entire day of work back in Mexico, I felt remorse, thinking about my mom and brother and how they needed those $7.00 so I didn't eat for an entire week, my friends noticed it so I stopped avoiding meals, until today sometimes I feel bad when I buy myself something, some sort of shame and I know it's wrong, I'm working on it, again, I don't like forcing feelings or masquerading them, I prefer understanding the nature of a phenomena.

After IHope, he took me to my temporary new home, a bed with just a blanket and a chair, I improvised and used some clothes as pillow.

Two weeks passed and I was working for this guy painting houses, I think it was Watertown, or something like that, McMansions in the suburbs with frozen pools and kitchens I've never imagined. Instead of feeling jealous of those homeowners I was feeling kind of sad, because almost all of them were retired people, I was confused because my mom was losing her home, a way smaller home that these, while I was painting homes for people who didn't needed that much space. I called my family every night and I was waiting impatiently for my first paycheck. This person didn't pay me, I was immersed in the most dangerous depression I've ever experienced. Finally the restaurant I applied for a job called and I accepted the offer as fast as possible. One of the cooks lived few blocks away, so we gave me rides every day. I got my first paycheck $183 and I sent everything to my mom. I was already making more money in one week than one month in Mexico working almost all day. So I felt and still feel grateful, I know it's still poverty, but not the kind of poverty I escaped from, I finally had enough money to get some non-Mazatlan clothes, I bought used clothes at the thrifty, in pretty good condition, coming from an upper middle class background (my childhood) this moment changed my life forever, even when I was poor in Mazatlan I was in denial, it's the caste system and privilege I didn't want to lose, it's the stupid concept of preserving a status with material things, I started to feel more humble, life was changing me, I've never felt that free in my entire life, I renounced to my status, to my caste. I also bought a plant and a candle, I enjoy seeing plants growing every day.

Two months after, Lizbeth broke up with me on the phone, I called her everyday too, she was now dating an ex-boyfriend and she was feeling confused, she knew I was happy at the restaurant and fulfilling the culinary career I always wanted to have, I was really enjoying it, and she said she didn't want to be an obstacle or the reason why I had to sacrifice my dreams for someone again. I was heartbroken, I didn't see myself with another person at that time, we were best friends for 5 years, but we were very different, so I accepted that, somehow because I thought I would see her again, in a delusional plan I was making, but that's something I still don't have the stomach to share. I respect Lizbeth a lot, she is an amazing person, a leader, she taught me forgiveness and how to liberate myself from middle class illogical stratum. I don't feel sad that our relationship ended, I feel happy that it happened. But then my mom decided to close her business and we definitely lost our house. More bad news? a drunk driver killed one of my dogs and doctors detected a tumor in my mom's uterus. I made the decision to keep fighting for my family and work even harder, I found a second job and went to the Forest Home library to get books and dictionaries in English, I tried to learn as much English, as fast as possible, I went to MATC and took some classes, so being that busy again helped me with the depression and knowing I was in fact helping my family and myself. My mother started a new business, she sold her jewelry and with that money she made more jewelry, things were changing fast, and life was improving.

Mayday. I marched for the first time in my life for immigrants rights, not mine, because I was still not feeling American, but I was standing there in solidarity with people who call this land HOME. I saw the face of hate, people booing us all along Water Street, all white people from their offices, throwing garbage at the march, but some others joined the march, it was the very first pro-immigrant march in Milwaukee, or at least in a very long time. Thousand of people flooded downtown. When I left the march, I called Milwaukee home too. This is my home.

Life has given me the opportunity to experience and risk, take risks I don't regret. I am a different person, a more accepting person, I'm still taking risks but I'm never going back to an unequal caste system, I can say I renounce my privileges, but that's impossible, instead I want to fight against privileges until the day I die, so maybe next generations can enjoy equality and justice, so women can be people too, that immigration is a right, and every person can have access to public education, so dreaming high is not a challenge or a torturous life journey, but a pursuit of happiness.

It's been eight years, and I am a proud Wisconsinite, I'm the executive chef at a very cool restaurant and I live with my best friend. Life is good, I doubted many times, I abandoned my faith in God so many times, I made mistakes, but now life is good, I don't know for how long, but I'm ready for the next challenge.