From Marianne: The Moments They'll Never Forget

I was maybe nine or ten years old, standing in our Miami kitchen in the late 1960s, watching my mother and grandmother do something I wasn't supposed to get too close to.

Nena and Mami hovered over a deep pot of boiling oil, talking over each other the way they always did, but their hands never missed a beat. Nena slid green plantains through a mandolin over the fryer, each slice landing in the oil with a sharp hiss. Mami scooped them out and salted them before they had a chance to cool.

They warned me to keep my distance. I never listened. I stole one hot chip after another, burning my fingers, not caring at all.

We came from Cuba in 1961 and brought almost nothing with us except the food and the rituals that made us who we are.

Nena has been gone for years. But I still have that kitchen. I still have that smell.

This October I'm traveling to Spain, the motherland that gave Cuba its language, music, and so much of its soul. Nena was proud to say she descended from the Canary Islands. I'll be thinking about her the whole time.

You don't get to choose which ordinary Tuesday your children will remember for the rest of their lives. You don't know which afternoon in the kitchen will stay with them for fifty years.

Nena didn't know she was giving me a gift that day. She was just making chips.

Get in the kitchen with your kids and grandkids. Let them steal the hot chips. They're paying attention. They always are.