I never learned how to cook like my mother: a pinch of this, a dash of that and somehow her sazón would come out perfect every single time. She can taste whatever is bubbling in the pot and know exactly what’s missing. Not me.
Growing up, I’d throw mini feminist rants saying, “I’m never becoming a stay-at-home mom to cook for a man!” It would only be fueled by my dad’s old-school claims that once I get married, my husband was going to bring me right back as soon as he learned that I couldn’t cook. “Well then I’ll marry a chef!” I’d say.