TALES FROM THE TABLE

History isn’t just found in dusty books. It lives in the stories my family tells around the dinner table, in the scent of a cherished recipe, and in the quiet wisdom of those who came before us. Grandparents are the keepers of our family’s living history, passing down legacies that have shaped me in ways I am only now beginning to fully understand.

These are not the grand legends of heroes and superstars, but the personal, powerful anecdotes of ordinary life—the kinds of stories that reveal the true character of our loved ones. They are the hand-me-down cures for a common cold and the secrets to a perfect family meal. And I have discovered that they often come from the most unexpected places.

Like the cherished memories of Xochitl of her grandparents, whom she affectionately called “Papa Manuel” and “Mama Lupe”.  She remembers a particular summer when Papa Manuel, a quiet man, would join all the grandkids outside. Despite his age, he would race them in his “huaraches”—and win every time. This simple, playful act was a powerful moment of connection, a silent memory of a joyous summer.

But the most profound lessons often came in the quiet of the home. Mama Lupe, seeing that Xochitl was growing up without a mother and with a very ill father, took it upon herself to teach her what she believed were the responsibilities of a woman in the home. It wasn’t until Xochitl became an adult and started her own family that she fully grasped the wisdom behind her grandmother’s actions. Mama Lupe had been preparing her for a future she couldn’t yet see. Xochitl was the only grandchild, from a family of over 30, to spend time with her in the kitchen, learning her tricks and getting two of her most treasured recipes.

From Yalina, I learned that her grandparents taught her that life was a constant celebration. Every weekend was a journey from her “L.A. vibes” to the lively, late-night gatherings at her grandparents’ house in Mexico. Her grandpa’s “Domino Nights” were a legendary ritual, with cousins, good food, and music filling the converted garage until time seemed to lose all meaning. It was an environment of pure, unbridled joy. This happiness was so deeply ingrained that one night, returning from an event at 3 a.m., she found the party still going strong. Her grandma was casually warming tortillas, ready to feed the crowd, and her grandpa was grilling carne asada.

Yalina says her grandparents were the most peaceful and happy people she’s ever known, and she credits this to their conscious decision to protect their peace and keep their lives free of drama. Her grandma, a “literal queen,” is now in her late 80s and still is the life of the party, living by the motto: “As long as God gives me time, nothing will ever stop me from partying.” Through them, Yalina learned to celebrate everything, protect her peace because it’s priceless, never hold back on joy, and live life to the fullest.

I’ve also heard from Julian, who remembers his grandfather not for grand gestures, but for the quiet strength he showed after losing his farm during a financial crisis. Instead of becoming bitter, his grandpa bought a small plot of land, built a simple chicken coop, and started over. He taught Julian how to garden, and every time they planted seeds, he would say, “Son, you can’t rush the harvest. You just tend the soil and have faith.” It was a lesson in patience, resilience, and the power of starting over with what you have. Julian realized that the most valuable thing his grandfather passed down wasn’t a recipe or a story, but the wisdom that some things—like a good harvest or a peaceful life—simply can’t be rushed.

Bea’s memories of her grandmother are rooted in a beloved family ritual that I find so touching. Every Sunday, she and her cousins would gather at their grandmother’s house, and she would always cook her special noodle dish (“pancit” as it is famously called in Filipino) for them. Her grandmother would then quietly sit in her rocking chair, watching with love and fondness as her grandchildren enjoyed the meal. As her grandmother grew older, she gradually became more forgetful. Her once-perfect noodle dish would lose an ingredient or two, but her grandchildren would still lovingly eat it. They knew that their grandmother derived so much pleasure from the simple act of watching them eat, and the missing ingredients didn’t diminish the love that was the most important ingredient of all.

For me, there is a different kind of love that comes from the kitchen. The best recipes are imbued with a sense of security and belonging. This was certainly true for me and my great-grandmother. During summer, all the cousins on my dad’s side would stay with her in the province, where we would be treated to her superb cooking. Her “pata tim” (a tender pork leg stew) remains a dish that nothing can ever beat in its taste and tenderness. My great-grandmother was a personification of hearth and home, and cooking was her way of showing that everyone was “healthy and fed and happy.” She always ensured that as long as she was in the kitchen, no one would ever want for food. Though years have passed since her passing, and all the uncles and aunties have tried to recreate the famous dish, none can ever compare. The recipe, it seems, held a secret ingredient that only she could provide: her love.