Whenever I think of eating at home, my mind extends to the Cuban restaurants that dot Miami. The tables were filled with people you knew, the waitresses treated you like a grandaughter, affectionate but critical, and the food was definitely home cooking. Masitas de puerco were my order from the first time anyone thought to ask me what I’d like, possibly because I knew exactly what I was getting. A few rounds of “guess what you just ate?” with my grandfather making me nervous about venturing to far from the safe and familiar (typical answers: pig’s brains and blood pudding). It may have been a game but I didn’t always feel like playing.
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