Food has a way of doing what nothing else can: it gathers us, roots us, and reminds us who we are. In our family, meals were never just about eating. They were the soundtrack of our childhood, the punctuation marks on our days, the reason the house smelled like love and chaos all at once.

From the sizzle of papas fritas in the morning to the smoky aroma of carne asada drifting through the backyard, every dish carried a memory. Every bite was a story waiting to be told. Kitchens became stages, dining rooms became arenas, and backyards turned into playgrounds of laughter, shouting, and the occasional minor disaster.

Family and food were inseparable. One couldn’t exist without the other. Every gathering—whether a casual midweek meal, a planned cookout, or a holiday feast—was a celebration of us simply being us. The flavors, the smells, the spills, the laughter—they all combined into a chaotic, glorious symphony of togetherness.

In our house, the table wasn’t just a place to eat. It was a stage for connection, a hub for bonding, a battleground for debates over whose flauta was the best, and a canvas for stories that painted themselves into memory. Decades later, you could still close your eyes and taste them.

Carne asada is a tradition you find anywhere Mexican culture thrives—but if you grew up splitting time between Calexico and Mexicali, it takes on a life of its own. Here, it’s more than grilled meat; it’s a rhythm of family, a seasonal ritual, a soundtrack of backyard chaos that shapes childhoods. For us, that rhythm was unmistakable, as natural and essential as the air we breathed.

Growing up, carne asadas weren’t just meals—they were full-scale, multi-generational productions. And I’m not talking “throw some meat on the grill and call it a day.” No. These were legendary affairs that somehow began as casual visits and swelled into full-blown reunions celebrating… well, nothing at all except the simple fact that we were all there.

The smells hit before you even saw the house. Papas fritas sizzling in the morning, fried chicken wafting down the block by lunch. Backpacks were dropped mid-step because Mom was already in the kitchen, whistling like a mariachi solo gone rogue, laying out plates like she was staging a Broadway show.

Caldo de res bubbled on chilly days… and somehow on those 95-degree border afternoons too. Menudo on Sundays demanded bravery from anyone who dared peek inside the pot. Salsa de molcajete? Always ready to punch your taste buds awake.

Then came the cookouts. Ah, the carne asadas. Picture this: tios wielding tongs like samurai swords, arguing over grill space and whether the meat needed more “love.” Tias orchestrating a side-dish assembly line worthy of NASA precision. Cousins darting at top speed, screaming like caffeinated bandits, one minute climbing a tree, the next rolling in the dirt. Dogs added their own soundtrack of barking and chaos.

We weren’t celebrating anything in particular—just each other. And somehow, every gathering felt sacred. Stories exploded over the sizzle of meat, songs erupted spontaneously like someone had pressed “play” on nostalgia itself. One cookout often became the planning session for the next, a chaotic dress rehearsal for even greater mayhem.

As we got older, the chaos shifted. We claimed roles: I became the Grill Commander, wielding tongs like Excalibur. My sisters rotated through side dishes and meat slicing with surgical precision. My brother… mostly asked, “Do we have more meat?” every five minutes, contributing in unpredictable ways. Mom and Dad reclined like monarchs, cold drinks in hand, letting us run the circus.

And yet, no matter the size, the noise, or the accidental burns, the magic never faded. An uncle would arrive, someone else would sprint to buy more meat, cousins would reappear from hiding with new scratches and grass stains, and somehow, magically, the cookout would grow louder, bigger, and better.

It wasn’t just a meal. It was theater, comedy, and tradition all rolled into one greasy, glorious, chaotic, love-soaked afternoon.

There was one cookout that still lives in my memory like it was staged by angels with questionable timing. Unlike anything we’d done before, it was two parts family gathering, ten parts potluck.

It started with a simple idea—no carne asada this time. Let’s do something different. And just like that, we stumbled into the first (at least that I can remember) family fry-out.

The spread was ridiculous: tacos dorados, flautas, tostadas, sopes. Gloriously, unapologetically gluttonous. How it came about, I don’t recall—some mix of inspiration, chaos, and the undeniable law that if a family gets together long enough, it turns into a food festival.

And yet, somehow, it worked. Every bite felt like a tiny celebration, every plate piled higher than the last. Laughter bounced off the walls, cousins darted around with the speed of caffeinated squirrels, and adults argued good-naturedly over whose flauta was the best.

It was, without question, one of the most heavenly gatherings I can remember—a moment of pure, chaotic, delicious togetherness that reminded us why we loved just being us.

And it wasn’t just the cookouts. Oh no, we had our share of cook-ins too—indoor feasts that turned ordinary kitchens into arenas of aromatic chaos. In our later years, holiday celebrations leaned heavily on this tradition. Tamales steaming on the counter, buñuelos dusted in sugar, pots of menudo simmering away, potato salad waiting patiently for its moment, sopita de arroz comforting even the most chaotic hearts.

These meals were comfort food for the most uncomfortably comfortable family imaginable. Everyone had a role—or at least an opinion—about what should go on the table. Someone always accidentally dropped a tortilla or spilled a bit of salsa, and someone else would laugh while trying to mop it up. Kids ran between rooms like little energy hurricanes, unbothered by the clatter of pots, the hiss of frying oil, or the occasional argument over which flauta was superior.

Every gathering, whether inside or outside, felt like a celebration of us just being us. Kitchens became stages, dining rooms became banquet halls, backyards became stadiums. Through the noise, the spills, the overcooked potatoes and undercooked tamales, there was laughter, storytelling, and the unmistakable magic of family simply together.

Food wasn’t just food. It was theater, comedy, love, and tradition—all sizzling, steaming, and dancing together in glorious chaos.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.