The recipe exchanges between my mother and me began months before my son’s due date in April of this year. We sent texts and emails back and forth from her home in Houston to mine in Seville, Spain, with hungry anticipation of her trip to meet this new creature growing inside of me. From Indian dals and honey lactation cookies to anti-inflammatory, turmeric-laced everything, we were readying ourselves for this next phase of life: mine as a mother and hers as a grandmother. I nested in my own way, stocking the pantry with bags of brewer’s yeast, flax seed, and whatever else the internet told me to eat postpartum. I made odd Spanish American broths with chicken thighs and salted Ibérico pork bones, my belly…
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