Two Kinds of Cooks
There are two kinds of home cooks:
the ones who’ll hand you a family recipe with a smile, and the ones who’ll say something ridiculous like, “Sorry, it’s a secret.”
That second one? That’s not me. Family recipes were never meant to be locked away. They’re meant to be shared, passed down, and reinvented — not preserved like museum artifacts. My father’s black beans are proof.
The Real Chef at Home
Those beans came straight from Cuba with him, passed down from his mother. He was the real chef in our house. My mom helped, but he was the one who played, who improvised. He never measured a thing. I’d watch him at the stove, scooping cumin into his palm. I’d run to measure it before he tossed it into the pot, trying to catch the “secret,” even though he never treated it like one.
He was ahead of his time—saving chicken skins and frying them like chicharrones before nose-to-tail was a restaurant trend. Crispy, salty, addictive. We’d all fight for the last piece. He made unforgettable food from whatever he had, and those meals always started with beans.
A Pot Always on the Stove
Black, red, white, garbanzos — something was always simmering. And next to it, an iceberg lettuce salad, chopped or torn by hand, drenched in Goya olive oil and plain white vinegar. So sharp it made you pucker. That bite? Still sweet in my memory.
Writing Down What Was Never Written
Years later, when my parents stayed with me on the farm for a month, I stood in the kitchen and realized: These recipes will vanish if I don’t write them down.
He never used a cookbook, never followed instructions. One day the beans had bell pepper, the next day they didn’t. But every pot came with a story. And once he was gone, I knew I wouldn’t just lose the flavor — I’d lose him.
So I started writing down every family recipe he made. One at a time, turning what he held in his hands into something we could hold onto.
Recipes That Keep Evolving
My siblings and I all cook differently now. We’ve taken those same recipes and made them our own — added flavors, skipped steps, folded in new stories. That’s how it should be.
Recipes don’t stay frozen in time. They grow, stretch, and feed us in more ways than one.
The Real Secret
That’s how a family recipe stays alive — not by locking it away, but by cooking it, sharing it, and letting it grow.
Because the real “secret” isn’t in the pot.
It’s in the memory, the love, and the chance to hand the spoon to someone new.
(Unless you’re writing a cookbook — then sure, keep a little mystery. 😉)
Want to watch my version of my father’s black beans click here?
You’ll find it in Conversation Starters: From the Other Side of the Stove.
Grab your copy here.
