Why I Still Cook Ecuadorian Food on Rainy Glasgow Sundays

There is something about November rain on a Glasgow window that makes me need a pot of sofrito on the hob. Twenty-five years in, and some rituals refuse to adapt.

The first thing my mother taught me, before I could even reach the stove, was how to listen to onions. You wait for the moment they go from sharp to sweet — the kitchen tells you when.

In Glasgow the light is different. The rain is different. But the onions still tell you the same thing, in the same language, in any kitchen in the world.

I have lived here longer than I lived in Quito. And still, on a Sunday in November, I find myself reaching for cumin and achiote without thinking. Some rooms in your life refuse to be rearranged.