Taste of Tradition

In another world, I’d be making tortilla española, aligot, tonkatsu for my grandfather so his taste buds could tiptoe through the gates of cultures unknown to him. Instead, I write a piece in analysis and remembrance of his life through a Venezuelan dish.

The hallaca is a Venezuelan dish consisting of corn dough stuffed with beef, chicken and pork stew. Olives, capers, raisins, onions, bell peppers and many seasonings. All wrapped in plantain leaves to cook.

“Venga y tráigame una hallaca mañana, oyó?”

He whispered, body deep in the worn-out hospital bed.

And so he gnawed for as long as his lungs gave way,

and so he feasted on a dish that means beginnings,

on a dish that was born from leftovers.

“Venga y tráigame una hallaca mañana, oyó?”

You whispered, your body deep in the worn-out hospital bed,

your lungs weak, waiting for respite.

I can see you now, gnawing on half an hallaca.

Olives and capers and bits of chicken,

beef and pork spilling over the plate.

I can see you feasting on that feast.

Feast created by slaves.

Slaves feasting on a feast made from leftover feast.

A feast of leftovers made tradition,

tradition I had half forgotten.

I wonder how often we turn the tables,

how we pick pieces off the ground and make treasures.

Today, I will eat an hallaca in your name.

I will purposely spill the olives

and capers and bits of chicken, beef and pork.

I will mourn the birth of this tradition like I mourn the loss of your soul;

enjoying the fruits of this dish and the rebirth of my love for it.

In honor of Carlos Pedraza.