It starts with a pastelito. Not the perfectly folded ones you’ll find in a fancy bakery, but the misshapen kind, where guava and cheese ooze out of one side like a teenager’s bad haircut. For my family, these weren’t just snacks—they were symbols of connection and, occasionally, chaos. Anyone who walked into our bakery—La Dulce Vida—barely made it past the display case before they were pulled into someone else's story. And in my family, let me tell you, everyone had a story.
Somewhere between frosting cakes and arguing over the best cortadito ratios, my abuelo would launch into one of his classics: the Tale of the Impossible Proposal. In some families, love is a whispered affair. In ours, it's a full-volume novela with bad cell reception. And as I’d later learn, those stories shaped how I view the world, not just as a writer but as someone trying to decode what it means to love—and to be loved—in all our ridiculous human ways.
Love Lessons from El Gran Escape
Let me set the stage: Cuba, 1953. My abuelo Jorge, a mechanic with three shirts to his name, was madly in love with my abuela, María. She was beautiful, sharp, and already engaged to another man—a detail that, I kid you not, abuelo casually referred to as a "minor inconvenience." His strategy? Boldness unmatched.
He didn’t just profess his love to María; he went to her fiancé’s house to declare it to him. Legend says the tension could’ve rivaled any reggaeton beat drop, but Jorge was determined. “You’re not right for her,” he allegedly told the guy, a doctor with a nearly new Buick, before adding the jaw-dropping conclusion: “She deserves real love, and I’m it.”
Now, before you roll your eyes and imagine this guy’s ego punching through the ozone layer, know this—he wasn’t wrong. María left the doctor, and six months later, they eloped. Even today, my dad loves to interject during this story: “Sometimes it takes guts, not logic, to go after what you want.” He’s got a point, though the romantic in me wonders if maybe Logic filed for divorce after that move.
What I took from this wasn’t just my grandfather’s audacity. It was the lesson that you could fight for love, sure—but also that vulnerability might be the bravest thing of all. Jorge wasn’t offering María money or prestige; all he had was faith in what they could build together. (And trust me, it wasn’t easy. The man spent their honeymoon arguing with a boat engine.)
Tías, Gossip, and Unsolicited Dating Advice as Philosophy
If boldness was abuelo’s legacy, the art of “knowing when to laugh through the madness” came from his sisters, my colorful assortment of tías. These women swear by coffee, rosaries, and at least ten conspiracy theories about the secret life of Gloria Estefan. But here’s the kicker—they also know how to call out your nonsense faster than a bad salsa step.
Growing up, I spent Sundays surrounded by the loudest group of women you could imagine. Advice often arrived unprompted, blunt, and wrapped in slightly feral humor. “M’ijo,” one tía would say as I’d nurse a heartbreak, “cry all you want, but don’t let anyone see your face puffy. The world keeps spinning. Fix your hair.” Another would chime in with: “You’re only as happy as the colada on the table and the company you keep. Stop overthinking.”
It took me years to understand what they were really saying: don’t overcomplicate connection. It’s the moments in between the drama—the laughter between bites of arroz con pollo, the shoulder you lean on when things get heavy—that reveal who’s worth keeping around. Do these lessons apply to modern relationships or just domino nights in Little Havana? Both. Don’t underestimate the healing powers of shared joy—and caffeine.
When Food Is Love (And Also a Battlefield)
Growing up in La Dulce Vida, food was never purely about eating. It was a love language, a battle for dominance, and, let’s face it, a not-so-subtle form of emotional bribery. My mom? Queen of the “if you’re angry, eat a croqueta and think about it” school of conflict resolution. My dad? The guy whose arroz con leche could break silent treatment faster than a telenovela plot twist.
That’s not to say food solved everything—it didn’t. But it taught me something valuable: love thrives when you feed it—literally, sure, but also through small rituals of care. My parents never went to bed angry. Instead, they’d stay up making Cuban sandwiches “the right way”—which, apparently, requires debating mustard ratios at 2 a.m.
It’s the sort of devotion that stays with you, that teaches you relationships require effort, flexibility, and maybe a side of humor. The irony? Despite all the bakery wisdom at my disposal, my first attempt at impressing someone with my food skills ended in disaster. Pro tip: flan may look fancy, but one bad caramel pour and it turns into a beige science experiment.
Tinder Bios, But Make It Family Approved
By the time I started dating seriously, my parents had mastered subtle commentary. “Let us meet her,” they'd say casually, knowing full well that their welcome interview could rival that of the CIA. Once, when I introduced someone a bit stiff, my mom later “helpfully” commented: “Very polite. But does she laugh?”
Integrating family into your dating life isn’t always smooth. There’s awkward first dinner energy, someone mishears a joke, and suddenly your abuela is grilling someone about their retirement plans. But, as my abuelo loved to remind me, “If they can’t handle the whole family, they’ll never handle half of you.”
That’s proven oddly accurate over time. Strange as it may sound, every lasting connection I’ve made—friendship or romantic—has thrived in large part because of shared laughter, patience, and an acceptance of (loving) chaos. Whether or not their life included pastelitos didn’t matter, but their ability to appreciate the messy traditions that shaped my world? That mattered.
Final Crumbs from the Table
In dating, as in life, it turns out I’ve chased the same ideals my family modeled for me: authenticity, boldness, and yes, a lot of humor. My abuelo taught me that risk doesn’t guarantee reward, but authenticity always leads you closer to the real thing. My tías instilled an undying appreciation for belly-laughs and a tough-but-tender outlook on heartbreak. And my parents? They showed me that love isn’t just in grand gestures. It's in the small, everyday acts—the late-night sandwiches, the “text me when you get home” reminders, the way someone remembers how you like your coffee.
So maybe my family’s stories are sticky with guava and sometimes louder than they need to be. But they’ve taught me, in the most profound ways, that the real secret to connection is simpler than we think. You show up, you stay curious, and, every once in a while, you fight like hell for a love that feels worth it.
And if all else fails? Bring pastelitos. Trust me—nobody says no to those.
