Esa mala maña
de querer algo dulce después del almuerzo.
Como, por ejemplo, tus besos.
Son tan dulces que hasta empalagan.
Así que los envuelvo en una servilleta, y los guardo pa’ ahorita,
por si se me antoja tu dulzura después del mediodía.

Esa mala maña
de levantarme por la madrugada,
buscando algo que me calme el alma.
Como, por ejemplo, tus caricias en mi espalda.
Son tan suaves que me devuelven la calma.
Así que las guardo debajo de la almohada,
por si despierto y no te encuentro entre las sábanas.

Ay, esa mala maña
de nunca estar satisfecha. De siempre querer más.
Como, por ejemplo, más tiempo contigo.
El tiempo pasa tan rápido que me quedo con las ganas.
Así que escondo las memorias en mi bolsillo,
por si me da con extrañarte otra vez.

¡Saludos, Buenas!

It’s been two week since my piece Remedio Pa’l Mal de Amor has gone live on the Dominican Writers Association Substack, and I am still hyped about it! I am also excited to share that it will also be published in the forthcoming Palabras del Alma: Volume 1 anthology in December 2025. (!!) More details on that soon!

Remedio Pa’l Mal de Amor is a hybrid short story with lyrical prose, recipe, folk tradition, and some magical realism. It shows how desire and loss are felt in the body, and how a mother’s care, through remedios caseros and her persistence in healing el mal de amor, becomes a form of consuelo.

To call it mal de amor is to treat heartbreak like an illness. It translates to “lovesickness” in English, which suggests that heartbreak affects the body in the same way any sickness would, manifesting in the body as depresión, insomnia, loss of appetite, even as an obsession. Turning your whole world de pata pa’rriba.

Several years ago I had gone through a breakup that burned in my chest like hell. My mind wouldn’t shut up ruminating about why it had fallen apart and why my body felt like it was on fire. Ya no tenía con quién hablar, o mejor dicho, ya me daba vergüenza seguir con la misma cantaleta. Tenía a to’ el mundo jarto (con J pa’ hacer énfasis en el arte del “jarticicicísimo”) con lo mismo. So to spare my friends, y pa’ desahogarme, I grabbed my phone, opened my Notes app, y sin pensarlo mucho, I wrote: “Sudo esta fiebre que tengo de ti.”

Growing up I’d hear: “Fulanito tiene una fiebre con esa vaina.” or “¿y cuál es la fiebre pa’ tal cosa? Fiebre, in that context, means an obsession, an addiction, feeling desperate for something. And that’s exactly how it felt. My body had caught this “fever” for him, and the only thing left was to sudarla, to sweat it out, to find a way to heal it.

Years later, while listening to La Cura by Frankie Ruiz, I remembered that line I wrote about the breakup, and thought, oh shit, that would be a good story! So I went searching for it, but couldn’t find it anywhere. It was no longer in my Notes app. I think I may have posted it on Twitter, but I didn’t bother looking there because sabrá Dios cuál es mi contraseña, and if I texted it to him, that text is long gone. I even went as far as checking my Instagram story archive a ver si fue ahí que lo publiqué. Nothing.

During that time, I was taking a creative writing class at NYU with Simona Blat and she had us keep what she called an “information dump,” a place to keep notes on anything that interested us: memories, overheard conversations, research notes, family stories, any random thoughts or observations that piqued our interest to keep as a running list of raw material we could go back to later and shape into stories.

So I turned back to that practice and opened the informational dump document I had going, and rewrote that line with a note on what I wanted to do with it. Since my writing centers around food, I asked myself what recipe connects best with this story. I didn’t have an answer then but I knew I’d eventually come up with something.

And sure enough, it did while reading a research paper on indigenous food memory as a form of survival, and how food memory is passed down and preserved through generations, especially through women. Y pensé en Mami de una vez. I remembered how she would make us tea with the hojas y yerbas growing wild en el patio de Lala whenever one of us caught a fever. It only made sense, then, that el té would be the recipe for this story. I was like, oh, this is a perfect connection. This was it.

I still can’t find the rest of what I wrote after the breakup, but that line “suda esta fiebre que tengo de ti” has stayed with me all these years.

Music also shaped the story. As I was writing I realized that a lot of my stories center around music too. In Beyond Tuna, it was Juan Luis Guerra’s Burbujas de Amor. In Past Midnight, it was Soda Stereo’s En la Ciudad de la Furia. In Remedio Pa’l Mal de Amor there are several songs that connect to my story: Frankie Ruiz’s La Cura, Zeo Muñoz’s La Incompatibilidad and Ayúdame a Morir, and Héctor Lavoe’s Ausencia. Music has a way of conveying feelings I cannot put into words myself. These songs became the soundtrack to my story and their lyrics served as inspiration whenever I felt stuck. A ellos les doy las gracias por haberme acompañado todas esas madrugadas mientras escribía.

Remedio pa’l Mal de Amor is my attempt to honor the generational wisdom passed down by women, wisdom that, in my life, came first from Lala, our neighbor, who passed it on to my mother, and through her, to me. In writing it, I wanted to keep those traditions and beliefs alive, including Latin American folk illnesses like mal de ojo y sustos, and to name mal de amor as its own folk illness, showcasing how grief, loss and desire manifest in the body.

When I read the call for submission for “CONSUELO” on the Dominican Writers Association Substack for the Palabras del Alma Micro-Issue Series I knew this was the story I wanted to share and it gave me the push I needed to write it.

We sat in the living room. 

There was a live concert playing on TV, como serenata de fondo. It was one of those rock en español bands, Soda Stereo, or was it una balada de Rocío Dúrcal? 

We shared some wine. Or whiskey? No. Era una cerveza fría, en lata. Una Modelo. 

A car alarm went off down the block, joined by police sirens a few streets over. The neighbors upstairs stomped so hard it made the light fixture shake. Afuera, la ciudad de la furia. 

You passed me the beer and sank into the couch, rolling up your sleeves and loosening your tie. Staring at me. Taking me in. God. I love when you look at me like that.

I took a sip, tasting the trace of your lips left on the rim. I brought the can back to my lips to taste them once more.

I felt your eyes crawl along my skin, stopping at the dip of my collarbone. I wondered if you were imagining what it would feel like debajo de tus manos.

You looked back up at me, and I handed you back the beer. 

“It’s late,” you said.

It was already past midnight.
I had to be up early.

But we hadn’t finished the beer.

Afterword: On Memory, Language and Culture

How many of us hold on to a memory and replay it, over and over, like a movie in our heads? Past Midnight is one of those memories, un pedacito de las muchas noches que se me han quedado pegadas en mi memoria.

It’s written as a vignette so it reads as what it is: a memory. I wanted it to feel like I’m recalling and sorting through all those nights on my couch, retelling it as it comes to me, like speaking the memory out loud on the page.

The Spanglish throughout not only reflects how I think and speak, but also serve as form of intimacy. Certain feelings (sensuality, nostalgia, affection) and phrases are felt differently in Spanish, in ways that English can’t quite do.

The details, while all true, were also intentional. The televised concert in the living room, for example, isn’t exclusive to Latino culture, but for us it’s like a tradition. It’s what brings us together.

I also included the background noise of the city to situate us there without saying, we’re in my apt in the city. In writing it, I realized it tied so well with the song we had playing on TV, En la Ciudad de la Furia by Soda Stereo. It created the feeling I was going for: the chaos outside juxtaposed with the intimacy happening inside.

I chose to end it with the unfinished beer because it felt like the truest way to show we didn’t want the night to end. It was our way of stretching time, holding on to that moment for as long as we could, choosing pleasure over the responsibilities waiting on the other side of midnight.

It’s a memory I come to often, que me recuerda que los placeres de la vida muchas veces son sencillas, y de que vale la pena perderse en ellos.

The kitchen light reached into la sala, lighting it like a full moon. It made the night feel warm and intimate. Everyone looked so relaxed, como si la noche los estuviera abrazando.

My friend reached for the wine and refilled my glass. I wondered if she could tell that I needed it. I took a long sip, hoping it might settle the knots in my stomach. Everything looked perfectly in place. Except for me.

 I scooched myself to the edge of the couch to take a better look at the spread. 

Ay Dio’, ¿Y cómo e’ que uno le entra a e’ta vaina? 

¿Con cuchara? 

¿A lo loco? 

I glanced at my friend, hoping she’d take the first bite so I could follow her. She didn’t. She was too busy with her wine, singing “quisiera ser un pez…” to notice I was en plena crisis existencial con un sardina. 

I looked back at the table, and the sardines looked back at me.

¿Y si no me gusta? ¿Y si me da una vaina? 

Ya me veía con los ojos aguados, sonriendo como si nada pasara, con la sardina atrabanca’ en la garganta por haberla tragado entera, aguantándome las ganas de escupirla pa’ no pasar vergüenza al admitir que no me gustaba. Maybe I fake a call y me de’garito de aquí. 

“UuUuun pEz… para boR-daaar de co-rales tu cinnn-tura…”

Ese desafine snapped me right out of my spiral. Con ese galillo, oye, cualquiera se endereza. 

Deja el show, mujer. Nadie se ha muerto por una sardina.

I settled into the couch and took a deep breath and pretended like I hadn’t just been on the verge of losing my shit. I reached for a cracker and picked the smallest sardine I could find. 

Her husband went into the kitchen and came back with a jar of homemade pickled red onions and chili peppers, and set it down in front of me. 

Maybe the onions and chili would do me a favor and set my mouth on fire. 

I spooned some over the sardine/cracker situation I had going. 

I closed my eyes and went for a bite.

Uff. 

That first bite reached my soul. 

The acidity of the onions and heat from the red chiles layered over the sardines burned away my doubts. It left me wondering why I had waited so long to try anything beyond tuna.

Tuna was the only tinned fish I ate growing up. If Mami bought any tinned fish, it was tuna. Why? Who knows. Not even Mami could tell me. It was just another can in the pantry, entre el Adobo y el café Bustelo. 

My sister Paula, cuando le daba la gana, made the best tuna sandwiches. She didn’t cook often; in fact, she didn’t cook at all, unless she was making those sandwiches. And even that was rare. But I can still picture her by the kitchen counter in that apartment we grew up in, between Morris Ave and Kingsbridge Road. R&B played from her bedroom, which was just across from the kitchen. It was Monica or maybe Brandy singing in the background. I can’t remember. But there was always music. 

In a bowl, she’d mix the tuna with mayo, diced red onions, a splash of vinegar, and a pinch of salt. I'm convinced que ella le puso some kind of brujería, tambien, because, Dios mío, when I tell you it was oh so good. Then she’d spread the mixture between two slices of white bread. The kind that sticks to the roof of your mouth, dejándote añuga’o. Muriéndote por un vaso de agua to wash it down. Yeah, that one.

It wasn't until my mid-to-late twenties, after that night at my friend's house, that I began exploring different varieties. Pulpo? Sure. Eel? Why not. 

So, when my twin sister Nicole came to visit me in New York that summer from Dominican Republic, I figured, why not impress her? I loved that sardine spread so much, I couldn’t wait to share it with her.

I wanted it to be perfect, so I had to start early. Dejando nada para último minuto. Convincing myself I wouldn’t stress. Not that it mattered. I always stress, no matter how early I start.

The morning before Nicole’s visit, I peeked into the fridge and the pantry, hoping I had everything I needed. All I found in the fridge was some leftover rice from God knows when, and in the pantry, a stale pack of galletas María I must’ve bought months ago. I grabbed my notepad, the same one I use to jot down my dreams and never ending to-do’s, y empecé a notar lo que me faltaba:

The next morning, me fui al supermercado early to avoid the long lines. 

I grabbed a cart and made my way through the aisles, crossing things off my list one by one. I kept second guessing if what I had was enough. I couldn’t stop obsessing over how badly I wanted it to be perfect. Would she even care? Was I doing too much? 

I stopped to double-check my list. I was convinced I was forgetting something. Eso nunca falla. 

El carrito rattled over the tiles as I made my way to the checkout.

I unloaded my cart and watched as the cashier scanned every item. 

“Need a bag?” she asked. 

¡Coño, si, la funda! Of course that’s what I was forgetting.

I sighed and bought the bag. Another one for the ever-growing collection of bags stuffed under my kitchen sink, living its best forgotten life.

The walk back home felt eternal. My shirt was sticking to my back and my stomach was growling. Pero eso no iba a parar mi fiesta. I dropped the bags on the counter and pressed play on the playlist I’d made for this. I washed my hands y me faje a preparar el spread.

I started with arranging the sardine tins on the table and dabbing off the extra oil que se habia derramado al abrirlas. I laid the crackers onto a plate, and set them down next to the sardines.

Then I grabbed the red onions and sliced them and added them into a mason jar with vinegar and a pinch of salt, hoping, praying, they’d pickle in time and turn into that beautiful magenta color before Nicole arrived. I left the red chili peppers out por si acaso, pa’ que ella no me salte con que está muy picante o con que sé yo qué. 

All that was left were the tostones. I peeled the plátanos, sliced them, and dropped them into the hot oil. I watched them dance en el sartén as they turned a deeper yellow. Once ready, I took them out and smashed them flat with a tostonera, and fried them once more until they were golden and crisp.

The table was set and my hopes were high. I imagined her walking in. Her face lighting up. Gasping. Being floored by the spread. I pictured her trying it and loving it. Yo tenía una película hecha en la cabeza. I could even hear her saying something like, “Diablo, que vaina que ‘ta buena.” Maybe even asking for more. Estaba que no me aguantaba.

The doorbell rang. 

I rushed to open it. 

It was Nicole. Fresh from the airport. 

With hoop earrings louder than her, y con el cansancio del vuelo pegao en la cara.

“¡Fo! ¡Qué bajo a pescado!” she yelled.

El olor a sardina había salido a saludarla before I even could. 

My dignity dropped straight to my ankles. 

La película que me había montado salió volando de mi cabeza, quedando enredada somewhere between the hallway light y su maleta. I was too busy playing chef to notice my apartment reeked of fish.

She walked right past me, parked her suitcase by the closet, and dropped her purse on one of the dining chairs en la sala. Como si nada. Like her reaction didn’t just cause my ego to slide out of my chest and shatter across the floor. 

Trague en seco. 

The smell followed her in as I followed behind like a guest at my own party. 

“Well, duh.” I said. “I made sardines.” 

She didn’t say a word. 

She grabbed a cracker, maybe a tostón or two, but didn’t bother trying the sardines. We talked and we laughed, but I couldn't ignore the tightness I had in my chest. What the hell was I thinking, making this for her. 

By the end of the night, the sardine spread sat untouched. I sighed and started clearing the table. What else could I do? Force her to eat it? I felt like I did this all for nothing. I'd tried to share something I had come to love with the person I love the most, and she didn’t even give it a chance. Maybe I had overdone it. Maybe I should’ve just made tuna. Damnit. Or something else entirely. But now it was too late. 

I grabbed the remaining crackers and the jar of pickled onions, and carried them to the kitchen counter to pack them in airtight containers. At least I’d have them for later.

When I returned to grab the rest of the food, there Nicole was. Mid-bite.

“I haven’t eaten anything all day,” she said with her mouth full. “I’m so hungry.”

She reached for another tostón and piled some of the sardine spread.

She took a bite and then another.

“Oye, que vaina que ‘ta buena.” she said, as she continued to stuff her face. 

I stood there wondering if I was hallucinating. La misma que casi le da un patatús al entrar was now scooping up every last bit of the spread.

Tinned fish isn’t exactly for everyone. I know that now. Pero como dice el dicho: lo que no mata, engorda, even if you resist it at first.

I still think tinned fish is the perfect hors d’oeuvre to serve at any get-together, especially if your guests show up hangry.

Just ask my sister Nicole.

There’s a filipino restaurant in Yonkers. We can grab or share a Halo Halo if you want to :)

That’s the kind of text message that moves me. That speaks its way to my heart. My love language. <3 There’s something truly special about having friends who are as obsessed with food as you are and are always up for trying different foods.

My friend Sara invited me to try a Filipino restaurant a few weeks ago, and we were hooked. Since then, we’ve decided to explore different cuisines whenever we eat out. We don’t yet have a refined strategy for choosing where to go or what to eat. For now, we’re letting our curiosity take the lead. So far, it has been leading us towards Asian cuisine.

Our recent stop was Lula Mae, a Cambodian restaurant in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. We ordered the Whole Grilled Branzino, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. The fish was everything you would hope for: tender with crispy skin. But the highlight of the dish was the Nom Banh Chok Curry, drizzled over the fish and pooling at the bottom like liquid gold. Visually, she was a beaut! The bright yellow curry contrasted beautifully with the red chili and green herbs, making it as stunning to look at as it was to eat. The waitress suggested pairing it with a side of white rice, and it did not disappoint. The rice was exactly what it needed: sticky and comforting, perfect for soaking up every bit of curry.

We also tried the oysters. The Lucky Lime Oysters with Koh Kong sauce and fried shallots were an experience. The burst of briny, salty, and umami flavors and the crunch of crispy shallots made me want to pause and take it all in. Hands down, these were the best oysters I’ve had so far. (!!!) For our second appetizer, we ordered the Ora King Salmon Skewer and it was the perfect dish to share.

Sharing this food experience with a friend who’s as passionate about food as I am makes every bite even more memorable. ✨

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