December 5, 2014

“You wish you were home. You wish you were in your parents’ kitchen with your father standing at the stove frying up Cuban ham croquettes, the same ones he used to make when you were young, those deliciously crisp on the outside, soft and steaming on the inside ham croquettes you still like to eat by pressing between two saltines. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, shoving them into a piece of potato bread with a squirt of ketchup. You know how to make them but you never make them here. The croquettes represent another part of your life, the one you left behind by deciding to move away, and if you fry them up, if you attempt to make your father’s recipe right here in this godforsaken kitchen which leaves you cold on a daily basis, things will grow steadily more terrible…”

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