I’ve spent half my life chasing the ghost of my Abuela’s kitchen, wandering through every neon-lit “cantina” from Los Angeles to Chicago, praying for a scent that would actually transport me back.
When she passed, she took the specific rhythm of her mortar and pestle with her, and for a long time, nothing in the U.S. felt like home.
But then, I started looking into the corners of Michigan, places where the air is thick with the scent of toasted chiles and the slow, rhythmic “thwack-thwack” of hand-pressed tortillas…