Dear friends,
I was in the grocery store recently to buy a bunch of cilantro. I don’t know why but I became curious about it. I came home and googled cilantro and fell down a rabbit hole of botany, early European explorers, and North African history. As it turns out, cilantro is not native to the Americas at all. Not even Latin America.
WHAT?!!!
While the tomato is native to Latin America, cilantro is not; as integral as cilantro is to so many of our Latin American dishes, it was imported. The herb originated in Southern Europe and Northern Africa, and Europeans brought it to the Americas in the 1600s. I find it strange even to think of so many of our native dishes without cilantro; in fact, even its ineffable smell cooking in broth activates a sensory memory and takes me back to childhood meals at home enjoying hearty and delicious caldos (soups) with meat and vegetables.
Cilantro feels native to Latin America to me because it has become naturalized to us. It was once a foreign herb but over time, it integrated into our cooking and eventually found a place of real belonging, bringing unique flavor and aroma to our national foods. This immigrant plant made itself at home among us.
I cannot imagine that anyone knows when the change took place, when it transitioned from immigrant to native, but it happened; it became a part of our culinary landscape. Perhaps it feels strange to refer to a plant as an immigrant, because that is a word we reserve for people on the move, but just like an immigrant, cilantro has pledged itself to us and now it is ours, an honored member of our communities.
Just so you don’t keep wondering, cilantro has nothing to do with Christmas or Advent, other than the fact that it has a very festive green color. I just thought it was interesting that even a plant can migrate and become native, so much so that we don’t even recognize it as belonging anywhere else. And by the way, I made an amazing roasted tomato salsa with that cilantro:
Now you know the random things I think about. And surprisingly, this random thing made it into my book!
Studio Wives
Speaking of my book, we now have a title!
*Drum roll*
Beyond Welcome: Centering Immigrants in Our Christian Response to Immigration
I have completed two drafts of the book, but, believe it or not, there is still a lot more revising and editing to do. I’m excited that the hardest part is done, so let’s celebrate this milestone!
As I write these words to you, I’m preparing to travel to Guatemala, where there will be fireworks at midnight on December 24th. I’m so eager for this trip and to see family and friends, but I’m afraid that writing took its toll on my house. I haven’t unpacked though I moved in October. Half my stuff is still in boxes (My cat Scully has really enjoyed that), and it’s just a general mess. I can’t find anything nor do I remember where I packed things even to look for them. Writing requires time and energy, and something has to give—for me it’s the entire household.
But the space I have because I’m not cooking and cleaning has become fertile creative space. For that I am grateful! And I invite you to check out season 1 of the Cafe with Comadres podcast! The best episode I hosted was called Ancestral Wisdom: Communing with Our Ancestors (It’s only 32 minutes!):
I’m remembering that some of the great writers we all enjoy, like Wendell Berry and Fyodor Dostoevsky had “studio wives.” These are the women that kept the writers’ lives going (cooking, cleaning, laundry, and even typing manuscripts), so they could dedicate themselves to writing. I don’t envy a studio wife’s role, but I do envy how it made a life dedicated to creative pursuits so much easier. I wonder what Mrs. Dostoevsky, Mrs. Berry, and countless other women might have written themselves had they not been constrained by their circumstances.
Expect a Miracle
We’re now headed into year three of this pandemic. I’m sure that you like me are exhausted by the fact that it does seem like COVID is here to stay. I want to offer you a bright spot and something to hope for, but I feel all out of hope too. Instead, I want to share with you the person I look to during times like these, the most faithful theologian I knew: my abuelita.
When I was little, she sent me a card every year for my birthday. She would always send a special message inside, and then in the corner, in small, careful script she would write, “Jesus loves you and so do I. Expect a miracle.”
“Expect a miracle” were the words she lived by. They were written on her Bible. They sustained her and reminded her that the Almighty would act in unexpected ways for her good and for God’s own glory, no matter how grim the situation.
2020 - and subsequently 2021 — have been difficult years, in ways most of us could not have imagined: We faced a contentious election season, a global pandemic, racial unrest, economic turmoil, and now supply chain problems that make it difficult to access some staple items.
We are grateful to say goodbye to the old, difficult year and welcome the potential this new one holds. We want to expect a miracle — something different but welcome, surprising but joyful. And so we come to this new year with expectation, with the assurance that God makes all things new, even us.
Friends, I hope you get your miracle, whatever it may be.
Blessings in Christ,
Karen
P.S. If you want to read a great book about the wisdom and theology of all abuelitas (yes, yours too), Scully and I recommend this great book Abuelita Faith by Kat Armas.
