As I watched my dad nibble at the calamars fris and happily finish his chicken cordon bleu, I felt conflicted. On the one hand, I loved this restaurant, and it seemed that my father appreciated the food too, yet it may never have existed in the old Alberta. Read more
I am Honduran or Italian. I am me. A collection of my lived experiences. In New York, I imagine it’s Christmastime. My uncle hunched over the counter making homemade pasta noodles for lasagna, my aunt stealing a few slices of salami of her freshly made antipasto, and the smell of penne alla vodka permeating throughout Read more
I never thought I’d go vegan. But I realized it’s one of the most feminist things I’ve ever done. Read more
The first time I saw my child and held him— that pales in comparison to this pie. Read more
