My flashback goes to a place where I was exposed to the sensation of my taste buds recognizing the Venezuelan heritage I got from my father. A place where arepas make up my mornings, and a togetherness feeling can help us get to sleep at night. The kitchen where my sister and I would devour the leftover dinner to please our midnight hunger and to try and satisfy the craving of my Venezuela that we can't get in Boston.

In the summers, the plane would bring me to the airport where my aunt would then drive us through the unforgettable Andes mountains to a beautiful street with a blanket of trees dropping delectable limoncillo fruit one by one, and we would pull up to the house called Araguaney that lies in my Caracas.

My mother always described her country, the Dominican Republic, so proudly: her red-white-and-blue flag, her coconuts, her beaches, her people; everything is hers. I have the same feeling when our little-old beat-up green van with broken doors would drive in between immense mountains that could make me feel lightheaded. These mountains resemble giants, gentle green giants that in their own way welcome us to Venezuela.

There are wonders my aunt's hands can bring to the human soul and mouth. When I was little, I would fervently and impatiently watch her grind corn into a batter. She would shower it with salt and grease it with oil. My aunt would grill the batter into a circle that looked like an American pancake, but then she sliced white cheese into a melted delight. When it was in front of me, I took my fork and set it aside. With my hands, I ripped in half the soft cachapa, and let the stringy and gooey cheese stretch, and it released an aroma that smelled like home. Every food that had the honor of being devoured in my aunt Cecilia's kitchen is usually something that will never taste the same in Boston. The astounding cooking I so often miss back there is something that makes my Venezuela special, but there is also a particular reason that I find my aunt's kitchen so extraordinary, and it isn't the food.

The door in my aunt’s kitchen is a metal frame with bars. This is where I often come in and out on a sunny day, to skateboard with my cousin until my butt gets bruised from falling repeatedly. That same door was where I was introduced to my best friend. A friend that I know will never leave me, or do me wrong. Humans tend to rely on hate and expect the giving, but my friend only relies on food to eat, a place to sleep, and a person to love.

That day this summer was unforgettable. I remember the vibration of my music blasting though my ears when I hear little footsteps approach me, with my uncle along her side. The drop of my mouth as I see one-month-and-three-week-old Bella lick my feet and wag her black-and-white tail side to side. My little puppy, the little dog that I had met in Venezuela, that little beagle that entered through my aunt's kitchen. This wet-nosed piece of Venezuela that I brought home with me to Boston, her tiny face bringing back the memories of my Venezuela.