"You look like a chef," Mamá exclaims when she sees me in my new apron. She leads me in the making of my first meatloaf. "I don't measure," she says as she sprinkles unspecified amounts of adobo and sazón into the stainless steel mixing bowl. Somehow she knows the correct amount of every ingredient to incorporate into every dish from years of trial and error. "You'll make a great cook," she assures. I take the meatloaf out of the oven. She inspects it and cuts a small piece to taste. "It's good," she proclaims. I prepare four dinner plates and the three nods of approval fill me with hope.