The kitchen was the center of my mom’s reino, kingdom, the place all of thirteen of us kids gathered when we weren’t off doing things she probably wasn’t supposed to know about. Our house was small, truly built one sack of cement at a time, with the eight boys stacked in one room, the five girls in another, and a living room nook where we all could hang out. La cocina was my favorite room in the house.
The kitchen had a whole row of restaurant-size pots, always lined up and ready to go, and a cranky, old industrial kerosene stove that took some muscle to light. When I went to friends’ houses, I thought their moms were just pretending, playing house with their tiny pots and pans. You only had to turn a dial and tímido little flames spat out. (What could you cook on that?) Each morning, one of my older brothers would hand-crank the pump, over and over, until there was a loud whoosh! and a giant, half-foot-tall blue flame finally leapt out of our stove’s belly. Then Mamá was ready to start her twelve-hour shift.
Mom ran a very tight ship. With so many kids, she had to. There were no excusas when it came to chores. Although my father loved cooking, men in Peru didn’t usually spend much time in the kitchen. It was a very traditional culture, but my mom refused to discriminate when it came to kitchen chores. I always wanted to be in the kitchen, but most of my older brothers would have rather helped our dad fix anything around the house, even haul junk off the street in the summer heat. I thought I’d won the lottery when Carlos, one of my older brothers, offered me the equivalent of a quarter to chop onions when it was his turn. I was too small to reach the counter, so I’d stand on a chair when our mom wasn’t looking and put a plastic bag over my head with sunglasses so I wouldn’t cry (note to my kids: definitely not a good idea).
When I was finally old enough to take care of the “dailies,” meaning do some of the produce and meat market shopping, I would plan out a few of my own menus for the family for the week ahead. I was so proud that I would carefully write them out on our refrigerator in my ten-year-old script. Being in charge of the kitchen (at least in my head, as my mom was really in charge) also came with a bonus: When one of my older brothers would give me a hard time, his least favorite entrée would suddenly show up on the dinner menu. Dulce venganza—sweet revenge.