Foe Meat

By Mel Velasco

My grandma believed I substituted her love for another

My abuela wore her pink and purple swirl nightgown and a disappointed look on her face when I told her.

She lived in northern Colombia most of her life and believes people need to eat meat. Her gray hair still tight in rollers, Abuela Tita gasped at my veganism, “Los humanos necesitan comer proteína de animal.” We sat across from each other at the dining room table, each with a bowl of diced ripe mangoes. Her small mug brimmed with café con leche. 

My grandmother loved her granddaughters through food, cooking us the meals we craved. Sancocho for when we felt sick, chicharrónes for days we wanted fried food, and arepas with loads of butter and flaky sea salt to fill us up at breakfast. But, I always requested picadillo, so when I told her about going vegan, she felt like she couldn’t cook for me anymore. My grandmother interpreted it as a rejection of her love, which she served in the form of her culinary specialty, a meaty picadillo. 

I never helped make it, but always observed in awe. She sautéed diced red bell peppers, chopped white onion, and ground beef together until golden brown. Then she added garlic powder, cumin, bay leaves, and a pinch of ground cloves. Lastly, she spilled in a bit of tomato sauce, quartered green olives, and raisins to the pan. The mixture simmered together, smelling sweet from the cooked raisins, salty from the briny olives. 

Mexican, Cuban, and Puerto Rican versions of this dish commonly include capers, diced potatoes, and cinnamon instead of my grandmother’s Colombian-style with raisins and olives. “Picadillo is the gastronomical version of a chameleon,” says caterer Chef Gourmet.”It changes depending on its surroundings, but it always stays the same.” The name means chopped or ground, a description of the most fixed element of the dish: the meat.

I looked for a way to show her that love and protein both come in plant form. “I think you’ll be impressed,” I said confidently, one hand pointing to her, and the other on my hip. I turned on a Nelson Velásquez love song that started with a bellowing accordion. Abuela Tita began to sing along with the music, occasionally sipping on her can of Colombiana soda.

I watched my grandma prepare picadillo for my family countless times; I knew exactly how to make it. I just needed to swap ground beef with vegan meat crumbles. I sautéed the onions, bell peppers, and vegan meat. When I added the tomato sauce, it enveloped the meat mixture. As it boiled gently, the sweet and salty aroma filled the entire kitchen, smelling exactly like her version.

I handed my grandma a plate of fluffy rice topped with pea-sized pieces of vegan meat crumbles, olives stuffed with pimento, and plump raisins, covered in brick red tomato sauce. She took her first bite slowly. She chewed carefully, tasting every morsel of food. Filled with suspense, I asked her thoughts. Abuela Tita cracked a smile, simultaneously raising her right eyebrow. “Es mas o menos como mio,” she said, it had all the right components. She finished her portion, adding, “Pero it’s missing the ground beef.”