POP! Flu addled, I teetered unsteadily to the microwave to investigate. “Eewww,” I screamed. There was a kidney or some other organ poking out of the arroz caldo (chicken/turkey rice porridge) my husband was reheating for me as a salve for my illness. He came into the kitchen grinning sheepishly, “Sorry. I guess I didn’t get all the ‘parts’ out.” It was a conversation rehashed in many forms during the time we were together. As a white girl growing up in the 60s and 70s in relative affluence, I cut my teeth (literally) on prepared, often prepackaged and pre-cooked food. He was ...
