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Life, Food and Love
Hello everyone, and welcome. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Giselle, but most people call me Gi (as in the letter), or Gigi. I am a cook/chef, former paralegal, body worker, and opera singer; turned bodybuilder and strength athlete; now health and nutrition fitness life coach, and entrepreneur. Most importantly, I am a mom to a pretty special and unique human being. Writing and cooking have been a long-time passion of mine and it has been my intention to come up with this idea for a blog. See, I don’t know about you, but I believe in the art of storytelling. I think when we are able to articulate our lives, thoughts and feelings on paper it becomes an imprint forever; it is part of own personal history. When we familiarize ourselves through our history, we can begin a journey of self-discovery and personal growth, and what better way to facilitate that journey than through the art of cooking.
It was beloved chef and author, Anthony Bourdain who was quoted saying, “When someone cooks for you, they are saying something. They are telling you about themselves: Where they come from, who they are, what makes them happy.” This could not be truer. As with many methods of the arts, food is a universal language. It is a conversation starter, a shared experience, the empirical source for gathering and connecting with others. With this being the central theme of this blog, it is my intention to fill all my readers with more than just delicious recipes, but memories from my childhood to adulthood, and all in between.
So, welcome and stay awhile. Travel with me as I go back in time and remember where I come from. Get to know me and my ancestors, who taught me more than how to work around a kitchen. Follow my process of joy, grief and loss, as I share some of my most intimate thoughts and feelings while creating delicious meals; sprinkling a bit of life and love in the pot.
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REMEMBERING OUR ROOTS
As our country dissents into chaos and civil unrest, the calling of my ancestors’ pounds to the beat against my chest. Every deep breath that I take to calm the heat rising from belly only temporarily holds a moment of stillness, as I see images of hate and injustice; the destruction of principles and laws from the country that I have loved since birth, the dismantling of my federal government, and yet within all of this chaos I hear the whispers of my ancestors…calling. Reminding me where I come from, whose daughter I am. I am the daughter of immigrants whose parents were immigrants, whose parents’ parents were immigrants, and so on. I come from indigenous cultures spread far and wide. I am the granddaughter of political activists.
My grandmother came from a small puebla whose only way of freedom was to marry young so that she could later set herself free. She was a pioneer, a vocalist, a writer, a curandera, a healer to many, a woman of divine spirituality, a single mother who lost her children to the system and met a man (my grandfather) who chose to help her in one of the most delicate and vulnerable times in her life.
Most importantly, she was a woman who knew the importance of kindness and lending a hand to those in need. She was a woman who leveraged her business as a restaurateur to address socioeconomic issues that were happening within her community to local political leaders. This is how she brought change into her community. She knew the power of her voice, but most importantly she knew how exactly to bring people to the table to talk about these important issues.
In the same fashion as her mother, my mother used and leveraged her position as a plant manager to help others in need by hiring people who were seeking a better life in this country. Many who were undocumented and who had nowhere else to turn to. My mother put herself out on a limb by giving these people a chance to change their lives and the lives of their families. But she didn’t just stop there, for the majority of her workers she helped them further in helping them start the process of obtaining their permanent residence so that they could stay in this country and continue to provide for their families.
This is my history. This is my DNA, something that is not to be ignored or brushed off. It is part of my identity. It is why I cannot stay blind to the things that are happening to my nation, my community, mi gente. This is why I love and studied the law for so many years. This is why when someone comes to me for help, I cannot say NO. This is why my Mom always called me a pelonera. I carry these women in my veins wherever I go. I am a fighter, just like them, and I speak my mind whenever I feel there needs to be something said. This is why now more than ever we need to remain close as a community and hold tight to our roots.
I am and have always been a believer of political discourse. I believe in civil liberties and the right to express yourself freely. However, I believe we have walked the fine line far too long. We have unanimously legitimized the use of hate speech by blanketing it as part of those civil liberties by electing people in leadership who use this rhetoric for their own political gain and power. In doing so we have also legitimized the manipulation of interpreting the law so that it bends as far right leaning as those political leaders see fit. This is what fascist do. This is NOT ok. This is NOT normal.
Now more than ever we need to remind ourselves where we come from, we need to reacquaint ourselves to our culture’s history, but most important to our own family history. Get to know where you personally come from, how your parents got here, how your grandparents got here, and so on. This is how we humanize, empathize, and show compassion for others who are going through these atrocities that are happening around us. We must be able see ourselves in each other, as our brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles, primos and primas, abuelos y abuelas. This is the only way we can start to come together in unity so that we can begin to heal and rise together.
And as I sit here writing this, on my desk are photographs of my mother, my grandmother and my great grandmother staring back at me, and tears begin to roll down my face, because all I can hear them say is, “okay mija, what are YOU going to do.” In every journey where there is a path towards something greater there is catalyst that propels you into a higher stratosphere. There is an inflection point where we all must decide what direction to go towards. This is that moment for many of us during this time. So I reflect back to you what my ancestors are calling me to do….What are YOU going to do?
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Sweet Heat
“The secret of food lies in memory– of thinking and then knowing the taste of cinnamon or steak is.” -Jerry Saltz
There are certain flavors, scents, and tastes that just stay with you; they become part of your DNA, a blueprint that transports you to that special place where time and space cease to exist. For me, roasted chili peppers are one of those unforgettable flavors from my childhood. It takes me back to hot California summer times at my abuelos home in East LA. Simpler times roaming carefree on our bikes on the streets, Chicano underground oldies playing from a neighbor’s garage working on their lowrider, the sound of the paletero man rings from a distance, and my primos and I race back to the house just in time so abuelo could give us each a dollar to buy an ice cream. A time of reunion with all my cousins under one house where we let our imagination run wild in abuela’s garden which transformed in our minds into a selva (jungle) deep in the Congo like Rambo, and like Rambo, we always came back with the battle scars to prove just how much shit we could take. A place where we first learned what it meant to have work ethic. Whether you chose to be in the house cleaning with grandma, or outside stripping copper wire or smashing aluminum cans with grandpa, it was the first thing that was expected from us before we got to ride our bikes or play. Back to a time where we could never get lost because abuelas cooking would always guide us back home. It was a time and place where nostalgia filled the air, memories imprinted long before we ever existed; from the pavements where my parents first met just a few blocks down, to the infamous Whittier Boulevard, just steps away, where my mother would go cruising with her friends and siblings.
It’s history, my history, and those before me, encapsulated by the deep smokey scent of chiles being roasted on an open fire. It’s bounded by the ritual of preparation, the act of getting to the destination that is impermeable. The washing of the hands, the rustling sound of opening the bag of chilies, the smooth glazed texture of the pepper and running it through water, intentionally leaving droplets of water over it so that when you lay it against the fire it immediately knows what it supposed to do. It’s the clicking sound when you turn on the gas stove and the sound of air whooshing through, igniting the flames. It’s that sweet crackling and popping sound when you lay the peppers down; continuously turning them, its embers releasing into the air, guiding the flames to the untouched parts of them, like the caresses of a lover exploring your body for the first time. It’s the sweet leathery smell of heat and spice that circulates as the flames burn through the thin layer of skin on the pepper and watching it bubble out, transforming them from their rich and vibrant colors to a dark brown then charcoal. It’s watching the heat from the fire split through the top translucent layer of its skin exposing a warmer and softer chili texture underneath. It’s the core memory of watching my abuela do this process over the years and in the way I watched my mother do it the same her mother did; the way that I do now.
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Ride or Die
One of the things that I miss the most since my mom passed away is listening to her tell me stories of when I was a child. There’s nothing more enchanting than listening to other people’s experience and perspective of life with you. I don’t know if my mom ever really knew the kind of fulfillment it brought me listening to her stories. It was like putting back together a shattered vase; the glue that filled my inner brokenness; the hand that lead me back to a lost little girl. One of my favorite stories she’d recount was how much I loved horses and horse riding, how they’d take me to Griffith park to ride the ponies every chance they could. She’d recall any time I’d see a horse anywhere that I would scream in excitement and bug the shit out of my dad to take me to see the horsies.
My dad loved to gamble. Poker, blackjack, craps, but most of all, he loved to bet on horse races. As I reflect back on it now, I think it was that part of him that was still a risk taker, the kind of guy that left life up to the luck of the draw, the roll of the dice, and let chips land where they fall. A guy who knew when he had a good hand and could bluff his way to a better position. He was the kind of man who knew that life wasn’t always fair, that sometimes it dealt you a bad hand, but somehow he always knew how to make best of it. Even when the doctors came and told him he only had a few months to live, he managed to crack a joke through it all and had the last laugh by holding onto life only just a few days later. A shit talker with the driest sense of humor, like hot desert sand with no oasis in sight. From what my mom use to tell me, he wasn’t always so accepting of defeat. In those earlier years together, my dad struggled with alcohol and depression. A man who never fully recovered from the biggest gamble of his life. A chance that could have changed all of our lives. A businesses deal that went south and left us coming back home to California with his tail between his legs and a defeat so big that it would never get him to bet on that type of gamble again.
So he stuck with what he knew and boy did those horses get him every time. It was one of our favorite things we did together. We lived not far from the Santa Anita horse track and if there’s one thing that sticks out in all of my childhood memories with my pops, it was that race track. We never entered through the front entrance, always through the back, where the stables were. Dad was a stickler for time and he always made sure we got to the track before races began. It was our ritual to visit the stables so I could see the horses up close and personal. One by one my eyes memorized over these beautiful creatures. I could daydream all day riding one of these beauties on an open mountain range with nothing but bright blue skies and the dusty winds we’d create together. Dad would ask me which horses I’d like and he’d right down their names so that he could bet on them later. Sometimes I think how different my life could have been had my father’s dreams come true. If I would find myself everyday riding in the open plains. If I’d still feel like a city girl who never felt like she belonged here.
To this day I have an affinity for horses. They are truly one of the most magical and majestic animals I have ever seen. There’s a sense of wild freedom they exude, the kind that I have always been in search of, or maybe more so a feeling deep inside me that has always been yearning to be unleashed. Carefree and spirited without any preconceived notions about the world that surrounds them. A sense of living that is soaked by present moments and nothing else. Like most little girls wanting a horse when they were little, it has always been something on my long list of things to do and accomplish in life. And with each day that I sit and write, reminiscing over old photos like this one of me and my dad with the ponies at Griffith, there’s an inner pulling that grows stronger each day, and I know deep within my bones it’s that little girl tugging, like she would with her daddy to take her to be with the horsies. Time seems to go by faster as we get older and again I am reminded that time is all we have in this life and how we choose to fill it is what makes the biggest impact. And as I make my way back to myself, I realize that part of my journey is making sure that I take that little girl with me as we ride into the sunset. Because when the world all around you seems to be on fire and falling apart, she will always be there; she is my ride or die.
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Abuela
When it came to money, my grandmother didn’t have much, but what her hands were able to create in the kitchen could fill any void you were feeling because it came from a place of pure love.
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What Once Was and No Longer Is
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12.1.24
I was with my aunt last night and she shared some interesting facts about this newspaper clipping of my grandfather. Not only was my grandfather a decorated hard working baker at Union Maid Bakery, but he also had an important role in forming the Union for bakers. It’s interesting how the slightest of details can shift your perspective of someone or something. Little does my aunt know that the information she just shared gave me a new lens on how I see my grandfather. Here I thought all this time that my grandmother carried the torch of advocacy and all that is required to gather and forge through political change. I was wrong, the torch was shared and they both knew the power of their voices and how important it is to speak out for equality, protection and fairness.
It makes me wonder if this was a commonality that bonded their relationship, or sometimes you encounter special connections in life that influence you in a such a way, it changes the way you see the world and your place in it. The power of such a connection is so rare to find, especially nowadays, but I know first hand that it does exists out there.
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Intention
Today I’d like to set my intentions for this blog that I have been conjuring in my head for the past year. This idea for a book came into my head a few months before my mother’s passing last October of 2023. It happened quite unexpectedly and it took us all by surprise. She had been diagnosed with liver cancer a couple of years prior and although the tumors in her liver were relatively small and treatable, her liver was beyond repair and was put on the national transplant list. We were all aware that time was of the essence and although the doctors seemed optimistic which left my brother and I a bit optimistic too, just how much time exactly is something that couldn’t be determine, so we chose to think positively about the circumstances by not really focusing on it too much. My mom on the other hand reminded everyone every chance that she got that she was dying. She accepted the diagnosis and she accepted that this is what was going to kill her. So she nested and prepared as much as she could. Ultimately, I think only she knew how much closer to death she really was. I think we all know on some subconscious level.
I always wondered why the brain works in certain ways. Like why during tough challenges in life, like the death of a loved one, or in moments of failure and defeat, you’re often left reflecting back on what could have been done differently. Some days I’m left thinking if I would have got her to the hospital just a day or two earlier, if she would still be here. Other days I’m left thinking, I should have said, “fuck it,” “fuck everything,” and taken her by the hand and just dropped everything; giving her the best year and half of her life filled with travel, fulfilling all our plans we had set long ago together, or maybe I should have just been more present with her, soaking in the days of her companionship with a little more gratitude and love. Instead, we were so consumed with doctors appointments after doctor appointments. Researching and consulting every possible treatment option or drug, any kind of remedy that would prolong her life. It was a constant rush against time and it was ticking-accelerating even-faster than both my brother and I were aware of. Each day we watched her physically decline and there wasn’t anything any of us could do, but surrender. There was nothing stopping the inevitable and I don’t think any of us wanted to acknowledge that the end was nearer than we wanted it to be.
My brother and I with my Mom two birthdays before her passing. My mother was the first person to hear all of my ideas, no matter how crazy and unrealistic they were, she would sit and listen to every single little detail in silence and she never ever told me, “No, you can’t do that.” So it was no surprise that when I told her about this book idea, she just sat quietly and listen to me bounce ideas back and forth with myself out loud. She never inserted an opinion, unless I asked for one and no matter how she was feeling, she gave me that space, that outlet to regurgitate the thoughts in my head because by this point, my mother had realized and accepted that I was and will always be different when it came to my process. I was, am still a deeply complex person when it comes to my mental health. They are issues that I have struggled throughout my childhood and adult life. It is something that I live and work on with deep intention every single day. Writing has always been encouraged by my therapist to help with my thoughts. Something that I always struggled to do because, well, I’m lazy and if I am completely honest, my mom has always been my container. So now, I have no container besides my therapist that I see twice a month, but I realized I needed more. And well, here I am.
I thought, wouldn’t it be cool to see a writer go through their process of writing a book? Like watch them come up with pages in real time. I mean, it’s not the first time blogs have turned into published books, but most of the time that wasn’t the intention. Usually the blogger had an idea for a blog that later turned into a book. It seemed like an interesting idea at the time, but then when I actually started writing the first pages of this book, the thought occurred to me…are people going to buy a book they already read? Well, it wouldn’t be the first career that I’d make no money out of. LOL. All jokes aside, money is not why I am here. I’m here because I think we need more people to have the courage to tell their story. We need more people to be brave, vulnerable, and have the gravitas to lay it all out there. Because in one shape or form, we’re all fucked up and we’ve all been through some fucked up shit. The world needs kinship it, people need community, a sense of belonging. My entire life has been in search of it and at age forty two, I am still searching for my people because my people are gone and no-one ever prepares, or tells you just how lost you feel when both of your parents are dead.
So in my search to find my community, what I have inevitably found is myself. There is no greater exploration than getting to know who you really are. Stripping away all of the years of conditioning and start over. Except this time I’m healing my way through life and hopefully what gets created along the way is something that will be of service to you in some way shape or form. All I have are my words, experiences, wisdom, and some really great recipes that will all be shared here and in the book I am attempting to write. I’m not going to share everything because just like my true nature, allure and mystery go along way, (you’ll have to wait to buy the book), but you will see food, you will see outburst of frustration, random thoughts, and hopefully some really good writing, and maybe some not so good writing along with a little rough drafts here and there. But maybe you’ll get to know a little more about me along the way, get to know my process, my dysfunction, my family, my grief, my mental health struggles, but above all else feel whole lot of love interwoven in between it all.
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11.29.24
The words didn’t flow as I hoped for today, so I called it an early day, got some movement in, and got in the kitchen to recreate one of my mother’s holiday dishes. Something that’ll definitely be in the book and worth writing about.
For now, I will let the creative juices marinate just like the dish in the fridge. Tomorrow we will get things cooking.
Florence & The Machine is my current playlist writing flow…any other recommendations out there?
"What makes a dish memorable is when there’s love in the pot."
Pot of Love 