The first time I watched Como agua para chocolate, something clicked so deeply inside me that I still remember the exact feeling.
I sat there watching Tita cry her heartbreak straight into that wedding cake batter, only for every single guest to break down in tears after one bite, overwhelmed by grief they didn’t even know they were carrying. And later, when she poured all that raw, forbidden longing into quail with rose petals, the whole table caught fire with desire.
Most people watch a movie like that and call it magical realism. A poetic metaphor.
For me? It was just pure recognition.
I remember breathing out and thinking: I’m not crazy. I’m really not the only one.
Because I’ve known it forever: food is never just food. Ingredients don’t just combine chemically in a pan; they absorb the invisible. The unspoken tension in a room, the quiet sadness humming under the surface, the love or the pure devotion of the person doing the stirring, it all slips right into the sauce, soaking through every fiber. You don’t just eat ingredients. You eat the soul of the room, its warmth, its grief, its unspoken prayers, and the presence of whoever touched the ingredients before you.
Read further on my substack: https://substack.com/@swaanelauwaert1
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