Not just the flavors. I’m afraid of forgetting who I was when I tasted them.

Traveling the world, I have discovered flavors, colors, and aromas. Cuisines and stories that have been etched into my memory. Sometimes I wonder how long a memory can endure before it begins to blur.

The smell of firewood from those refried beans with cream and fried plantains during our visits to Catarina, in Nicaragua. The roasted pork with congrí in Viñales, Cuba; juicy, shared at long tables where time seemed to stand still.

In Turkey, the hünkar beğendi, rich and creamy, with roasted eggplant woven through every bite; the hot, spicy menemen that awakened the senses; the atom and levrek marin, tasting of the sea.

In Argentina, the endless weekend asados, the smoke clinging to our clothes, the sweet pastries at breakfast, the laughter stretching into the early morning hours.

The Colombian ajiaco, steaming on Tuesdays at the home of my dear friends, that thick broth that warms both hands and soul, and that I am only just beginning to love and call my own.

And then all the others: the delicate heat of Peruvian ceviche; Mexican tacos al pastor bought on the street, surrounded by music and noise; Salvadoran pupusas, thick and steaming, opened with your fingers while the curtido crackled fresh on top; Brazilian bolinhos de feijoada and brigadeiros; shared paellas in Spain; octopus in Greece with the sea breathing in the background; generous tables of hummus and meze in Lebanon; warm strudel in Austria; fondue in Switzerland; fresh seafood in Montenegro and Croatia.

Flavors that expanded me. That taught me the world can fit around a table.

There are also those inherited from souls who left their mark: the plov of Tajikistan and its Uzbek version, offered with boundless hospitality. So many dishes that have widened my inner map.

So many reasons to gather. So much still to discover. So much to be grateful for.

But I am afraid.

Afraid that one day the names will blur together. That the smoke will dissolve. That memory will betray what the heart knows was happiness.

Perhaps that is why I write. To hold on to what I have lived. To not forget.

Mine, those of my Dominican island, and those of my adopted country, Italy, I carry with me always. Because as long as I can cook them, I will continue to know who I am.