Arepa Amor

Arepa Love

I left Venezuela with my grandmother's recipe and nothing else.

"What's an arepa?" she asked at my tiny stand.

"Home. Stuffed and grilled."

"That sounds complicated."

"It's the simplest love there is."

Her name was Sofia. Local, curious, kind enough to try something unfamiliar.

"This is incredible," she said, biting into one.

"This is survival. Made delicious."

She came back daily. Learned the names: reina pepiada, pabellón, dominó.

"Why arepas?" she asked.

"Because everything else was taken from me. But this recipe, they couldn't touch."

I told her my story. The country I fled. The family scattered across continents. The loneliness of building something new.

"You're not alone anymore," she said.

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm here. And I'm not leaving."

She kissed me over fresh masa. Tasted like corn and new beginnings.

"Is this home now?" she asked.

"Home is wherever I make arepas for you."

We run the stand together. Venezuelan food for American customers who become family.

"To home," we toast.

"To building it together," she adds.

Arepa amor—where exile ends, and home is made one stuffed corn cake at a time.