by the stove, watching Ali, my nanny, chop white onion, serrano peppers, and squash for the , while the epazote aroma from simmering filled the house for over an hour until the broth thickened to a perfect soupy consistency. Ali was from a village called Ixtlahuaca, which means “place without trees” in Nahuatl. Besides being an extraordinary cook, she was my companion, teacher, and most importantly a second mother, helping me dress every morning, preparing my lunch, and pouring the glass of , silky and cold, that waited for me by the kitchen counter so I wouldn’t go to school on an empty stomach. When my parents went out, we watched silly TV shows together or listened to scary stories over the radio. On occasion (if I begged enough) she’d let me come
