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.