Trigger warning: this one is raw.

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Convivencia is more than togetherness. It’s the warmth created when people gather around a table, cook side by side, tell stories, and make space for one another.

I believe kitchens possess a kind of magic.

Not the fairy-tale kind, but the kind that quietly heals wounds, softens old resentments, and brings warmth back into even the saddest of hearts. Food has always carried that power for me, and recently I was reminded exactly why.

A couple weeks ago, family came to visit me in Japan. Family I never thought I would see again. Growing up, for reasons I didn’t fully understand as a child, we were largely separated from this side of the family. The memories I have are few. Some good, many painful. My mother’s side of the family is enormous. She was the eleventh of eleven children, and I’ve long since lost count of which grandchild or cousin I am among the countless descendants that followed.

One year ago, we lost the matriarch of that family: my Mama Licha.

For some reason, among all her grandchildren, I was the only one who she wanted me to call her Mama Licha instead of Abuela. Eventually my other grandmother adopted this title too. I never had grandmas or grandpas (they both passed away before I was born.) I only had Mamas.

Mama Licha was a force of nature. A guerrera. The glue holding together a dysfunctional family that grew not only in numbers, but also in trauma. Not everything was dark, of course. But if I’m honest, it is darker than I can fully explain here without losing sight of the point of this story.

Despite everything, one memory shines brighter than the rest: convivencia. No matter the arguments, grudges, disappointments, or disagreements, everyone eventually gathered in Mama Licha’s kitchen.

The party always began there.

The tias would crowd around the counters, chopping vegetables, stirring pots, gossiping, laughing, and sharing stories from years before I was born. Stories that slowly helped me piece together the puzzle of my mother’s life and childhood.

I loved sitting quietly nearby, listening.

Sneaking tastes of the tinga or whatever guiso was being prepared. Sampling the bizcochos. Wrapping my hands around a mug of café con leche. Eating warm handmade tortillas straight from the comal. Listening to the shiiiiiiiii of the pressure cooker slowly tenderizing ribs in Coca-Cola, one of Mama Licha’s specialties.

I remember her passing down recipes as casually as family gossip. Talking about the yesteryears when she somehow managed to feed and clothe ten children. Teaching without ever realizing she was teaching.

Then one day she was gone. And I realized those fragments were all the time I was destined to have with her.

Bits and pieces. But the lesson she left behind was enormous.

Convivencia.

Only after her passing did I truly understand why I have fought so hard to create space for it in my own kitchen.

Every workshop I host.

Every meal shared around my table.

Every recipe cooked from my cookbook in someone else’s home.

What I am really trying to create isn’t just food.

It’s convivencia.

Recently that lesson came full circle when my tias visited Japan.

To be honest, I wasn’t prepared for the chaos that would unfold.

I wasn’t prepared to witness culture shock in real time. To confront the challenges I have quietly navigated over the last decade living abroad. To see expectations collide with reality.

And yet, for one brief moment, something extraordinary happened.

As we prepared a feast for my daughter’s second birthday, I found myself standing where Mama Licha once stood.

For a few hours, my kitchen became the center of the family.

The tias gathered around the counters. Tortillas puffed on the comal. Knives rhythmically chopped vegetables. Someone tasted the salsa. Someone else adjusted the seasoning. Stories began to flow. Laughter followed.

The disappointments of the trip were set aside.

Old frustrations softened.

Not erased. Not solved.

Just… suspended.

Long enough for something warmer to take their place.

For the first time since Mama Licha passed away, the tias allowed themselves to revisit the memories they had been carrying. They spoke of her mole. Her tesgüino. The last pot of frijoles de olla she made. The stories she used to tell. The lessons she passed down without ceremony.

And for a few precious hours, she was there with us.

Not physically, of course.

But in every tortilla.

Every recipe.

Every story.

Every laugh.

Mama Licha was quietly honored that day.

And I was reminded why I believe so deeply in the magic of kitchens.

Not because food fixes everything.

It doesn’t.

It won’t erase generations of hurt. It won’t magically heal broken relationships. It won’t transform people overnight.

But it creates space.

A space where people can gather.

A space where memories survive.

A space where healing can begin.

Those little corners of my kitchen have become sacred to me. They exist for my family, for my friends, for the people who join my culinary experiences, and for anyone who opens my cookbook and cooks a meal from its pages.

Because sometimes the most important ingredient isn’t in the recipe at all.

It’s the people standing around the stove.

Together.