Growing up, I’ve been constantly exposed to traditional ethnic cooking. I’ve sat with my paternal grandmother as she teaches me to make arroz con pollo, my maternal aunt as she teaches me how to make empanadas. My dad and I have made kringlas and lefse for the holidays using his grandmother’s recipes. At my mother’s family gatherings, we drink Cuban coffee and eat yucca and Cuban yellow rice and beans. I’m part of generations who have taught each other how to spread masa on corn husks to make tamales. I’ve been surrounded by Mexican, Cuban and Norwegian food for as long as I can remember. So why do I feel guilty about making it myself?

Today, I made fried plantains, or platanos. My grandmother gave me three big plantains for my birthday, which I eagerly watched ripen on my kitchen counter. They were finally brown enough to fry today, but I felt some sense of guilt as I let them brown in the pan. 

As I looked at myself in the mirror while washing the oil off of my hands, I didn’t see the faces of my Cuban relatives who normally cook the platanos for me. I saw my pale skin and felt strange. Although I’ve been eating these for my whole life, I felt like because I’m not Cuban myself I didn’t have a right to make them and claim it as a family tradition.

But, as I snack on my platanos, I realize that my culture is not the DNA that builds my body, but the memories that make up my mind. I know that when I text my grandmother a picture of the platanos I made, she will be proud of me. I know that the tamales taste the same no matter what color the hands are folding them. Cultural food doesn’t hold the bias. It’s me that needs to learn to accept that my ethnicity doesn’t bar me from making the food I grew up eating with pride.