Between the fried fish and the yam, there’s a distance that only matches in the East.
The sweet potato tamed the saltiness, and darkness served as a guide; breakfast eggs with a side of cheesy arepas framed the day.
Crying over the hearth is part of the struggle; it’s food with emotion, with intent.
The pot embraced us and sent us back smelling like Palo Santo.
Texts by Leslie Herrera
Photography by Rafael Zuniga // @pase_bonito
