El Charapo is the town where my father was born in the State of Michoacan, Mexico. The town was a rustic agricultural community where my father's family would live seven months a year to plant corn and sesame seeds. Most everything the family ate they had farmed, fished, hunted or had received in trade with other families.
One memory my father shares from his childhood in El Charapo was the ending of the day. He and other children would be playing on a hill overlooking the crops and, as the sun was starting to set, the eerie howling from packs of coyotes would begin to fill the air. This was the children's natural alarm that dusk was fast approaching and it was time to come down the hill and head home for dinner.
It is stories like these that my father shares during a meal that I cherish so much. They make me want to turn back the clock and share my father's childhood with him. The closest I can get is in the kitchen when he tastes our sauce with his eyes closed and says, "this takes me right back to El Charapo."