The year the house felt ready
We’d lived on our farm for four years—small, a little wild at the edges, the kind of place where you hear the wind before you feel it on your face. We had just finished renovating the kitchen, and I’d fallen for the fire-engine-red cabinets. People thought I was crazy when I first suggested them. Once they were up, everyone loved them. Big windows faced the valley. Three tall trees stood at the edge of our property, bare and watchful. We called them the Three Sisters. They marked the end of our land and, somehow, felt like family.
My mom and dad were outside, stringing lights. My sister chopped celery at the counter. Marty was on the tractor—he loves that machine. Somewhere between the deck lights clicking on and the oven warming, the evening began to sound like Thanksgiving.
What belongs on our table
My Cuban roots guide a lot of my cooking, so classic American stuffing never made much sense to me at first. The first time I tasted it, I remember thinking, why are we putting wet bread inside a turkey? Eventually I realized that stuffing—dressing, for my Southern friends—isn’t about logic. It’s about comfort and repetition. So I made a version of my own.
Names change depending on where you grew up—stuffing in some places, dressing in others, with a lot of history baked in. Food & Wine has a clear explainer on why people call it different things, and it’s worth a read.
How it started to sing
I began with baked cornbread tore it up and tossed pieces onto a sheet pan. Cornbread is what we reached for when the air turned crisp at the farm. I toasted it until it got a caramel edge. Then I layered in golden tostones, sautéed mushrooms, and Spanish chorizo. It needed a thread of sweet—nothing cloying—so I macerated dried cherries in bourbon until they were a little drunk.
The tostones were an accident the first year. I was short on bread and improvised. Now they’re non-negotiable.
A conversation in the pan
I kept the usual suspects: onion, celery, and a little sage from the garden. But with every stir, the dish sounded like a conversation—between who I am and where I came from, between the table I grew up around and the one I’m building now.
When it left the oven
It came out bubbling and crisp at the edges. In that moment I knew what would stay with us.
After the first bite, it was obvious: the turkey wasn’t the star. The stuffing was—cornbread and tostones, bread. chorizo and drunk cherries. By dessert, everybody had a name for it. By the next year, it was the first thing they asked about.
