Traveling of sorts. An ode to food.

I like to think that I've traveled the world. That no matter what little airplane time I've had, I've been around the atlas many times now. Learning, tasting, cooking, and hearing stories. In my mind, I am a traveler.

It all started back in the late 80's in Puerto Rico. I was but a small skinny kid who loved to wonder how other cultures were, how they talked, what they ate.

My father was like that too, and it was him who introduced me to a way of thinking that has formed, mostly, who I am today. How is it? Make friends, lots of them - no matter their skin tone, religion, political preferences, education, past, or social status. "Make friends", he said. "Always help and be good to people. Talk to them. Share stories. Get some drinks, eat with them". And pretty much of my youth I saw papi doing just that.

My old mad was, well, is always talking about a friend he met from France, or from China, Jamaica, Brazil, Argentina, Cuba, Italy... And the list keeps going. I use to call him The Major because he was always greeting everybody, and they greeted him back. The funny thing is that some friends, and family call me just like that, The Major.

Now, after many years of meeting new people from all over the world, and sharing stories with them, I feel that in my mind, I've been to their countries.

From the Italian old man who taught me how to make pomodoro sauce from scratch. The Japanese sushi shokunin who shed some light on how to slice fish and make the rice. The Peruvian girl I use to work with, who introduced me to pisco. The Colombian friends who never ceased talking about the famous bandeja paisa, pan de bono, arequipe, hormigas culonas, and obleas.

My old college friend from Brazil who never stopped telling me to try feijoada. A girl from Venezuela who mentioned something about arepas, and cachapas.

The guy from Iraq, that I met in Pensilvania, who mentioned the delicious flat breads. My friends from Mexico, who talk about tortillas de masa, and mole poblano. My best friend, who's from the Dominican Republic, that introduced me to chimis, mangú, and refresco rojo.

The list keeps going with people from Argentina, Panama, Paraguay, Uruguay, France, Belgium, Ecuador, Cuba, Jamaica, Jordan, England, New Zealand, Guatemala, Chile, Spain, China, India, Canada, Germany, Haiti... The South Americans I met in New York who gave me free food and beer at Chelsea Market, the Vietnamese people I met in Austin TX, the Russian cab driver in Los Angeles who talked about his mom's stroganoff. The US Americans who have share old stories about their mom's, or even grandma's southern cooking, and the nice lady who shared a family recipe which dates back to more than 100 years old. How about that?

Or the Ethiopian guy I met in Austin, TX who told me that in his country, sometimes they serve coffee with salt during the coffee ceremony (And by the way, I've put a pinch of salt in my black coffee and it brings up the flavor. Next time I'll try brewing it three times like they do).

I can't help to think that there's a lot of stories I've heard, and shared, and there are more to come and go. And the common denominator in all of them has been the food, either physical or in the form of words, food. I have very little airplane time, but I have traveled.

I like to think that I am well-traveled, and the vehicle has been... food.

#itsfoodoclock