My mother's molcajete sits on my windowsill. It belonged to her mother before, and the volcanic stone is so smooth from a hundred years of garlic and chiles that the inside of the bowl looks like dark glass. I grew up in Puebla making masa beside her, and I have toasted a chile in every kitchen I have lived in since.

What I write is the real version of a dish: the Yucatecan cochinita, the Oaxacan mole, a ceviche from a small stand in Lima. I name the region every time, because Mexican is not one cuisine and Latin American is not one continent of food.