My girlfriend’s mother was from Peru. She was exotic because of her dark skin and to me that was enough to prove she was authentic. Undeniable were her foreign mannerisms and thick accent. Molasses thick. Her name is Mora.
Sometimes I come over to the house for dinner. There would be the strangest mix of dishes at the table. It was like an international potluck: cheeseburgers, spaghetti, tacos, and anything incorporated into American household cooking. In fact, since I was Asian, Chinese food was made tonight specifically for me. She taught me that Peruvian cuisine was one of the more diverse, drawing from many other countries.
I called her “M” because I was always afraid I was desecrating her entire cultural identity with every mispronunciation. I think she hated that more, though. In my head, I’d just call her by the literal translation of her name — “little blueberry”.
I learned a lot of things from her. That butter or oil in boiling water before cooking noodles prevents sticking. How to roll my tongue when speaking Spanish. That the Chinese-Peruvian style dinner was a well established staple of her country’s culinary history and that it was called El Chifa.
M always made us salads to start off every meal because she thought it would keep us healthy. The battles I had with those salad bowls were vicious. Selective eating became a practiced dance, gracefully using my fork to avoid undesired components like carrots and treasure hunt for gems like croutons. Surprisingly, I did like leafy greens and she knew this. So she offers me salad with extra romaine, but her uncoordinated English made it sound like “romance”. Why yes, I will have some romaine, as long as it was with my little blueberry. On a menu, her and I would be an El Chifa salad.
