Fresh-pressed sugarcane juice from the Amazon is double-distilled into cañazo (rum). A winery’s leftover grape pomace finds new life in an Old World orujo. Ancestral jora corn transforms into unaged whiskey. And category-defying oca wine becomes a high-proof tuber brandy. Born from the collaboration between a distiller, winemaker, brewer and farmer, these distillates are the new spirits of the Andes.

Compuesto

When former New York-based lawyer Haresh Bhojwani visited Ollantaytambo, he sipped a compuesto that changed his life. These herbal liqueurs are in every home here. Families make them by infusing cañazo from local haciendas with native medicinal plants to define their color, aroma and flavor.

“Here was this complex, incredible homemade concoction. It was so personal because it represents what their mother likes,” says Bhojwani about the compuesto that Wendy Weeks made from a family recipe at El Albergue, her Ollantaytambo hotel. “It was so lovely, it should be made for the whole world to drink,” he adds.

Over the next two decades, Bhojwani kept coming back to chat with Joaquin Randall, Weeks’ son, about producing the family’s compuesto. Unable to find a local cañazo they liked for the project, Bhojwani realized they had to distill their own and founded Destilería Andina. As it turns out, their new cañazo so strongly represented the terroir of the region, that they ended up bottling it on its own.

Cañazo

Spain’s colonial foodways brought caña de azucar (sugarcane) to Peru’s north coast more than 400 years ago. In the tradition of the French Caribbean’s rhum agricole, locals began distilling fresh-pressed sugarcane juice to make cañazo. Because it’s more economical to produce than pisco, Peru’s grape brandy, cañazo became the drink of the working class, especially in the Andes where families pour it on the ground as an offering to Pachamama, Mother Earth.

Peru’s cañazo producers distill only once, but Destilería Andina’s does it differently.

“I believe in the double-distillation symphony,” Bhojwani says. The first distillation extracts the alcohol from the fermentation, and the second focuses on the flavors. However, instead of starting with sugarcane, Destilería Andina uses producers’ once-distilled cañazo and distills it again to obtain their product.

Destilería Andina sources cañazo from two regions, the high-elevation Andes and lower-elevation Amazon, different ecosystems that shape Peru’s vertical ecology.

In Curahuasi, not far from Ollantaytambo, the glacial river Apurimac cuts through former Andean seabeds. Its water, rich in minerals and salinity, irrigates crops in the arid environment. At this altitude, more than 8,000 feet, it takes about 18 months for the sugarcane to mature, and Bhojwani describes the taste of their high-elevation cañazo as “reminiscent of green olives, almost like a dirty martini.”

Just a couple of hours from Ollantaytambo, dropping a few thousand feet into the edge of Peru’s Amazon, the soil is fertile in plant matter and manure from local farms. The sugarcane that grows here matures in just six months. This makes their younger lower-elevation cañazo “funky, more like a traditional rhum agricole,” Bhojwani says.

After three years of experimenting, Destilería Andina settled on a recipe for the family’s compuesto. For the base, they chose their higher-elevation cañazo, which Bhojwani believes has the right minerality and salinity to bond botanical flavors together and create a little bit of sweetness from fresh herbs like fennel and chamomile flowers. But despite having successfully produced the compuesto that inspired Bhojwani’s move to Ollantaytambo, Destilería Andina was just getting started.

Whiskey de Jora

In the outskirts of Ollantaytambo, Cervecería del Valle Sagrado is brewing some of Peru’s first small-batch craft beer. But thousands of years ago, Andean communities were already germinating corn into jora to make the ancestral chicha de jora beer.

“It’s 8,000 years of fermentation behind that grain. So, it’s knowledge handed down mother to daughter for 8,000 years,” says Bhojwani about jora, and the chicheras (women brewers) who traditionally make chicha de jora.

To some, it’s an acquired taste, as the chicha de jora beer is actively fermenting when you drink it. But to Juan Mayorga, Cervecería del Valle Sagrado founder, “It’s a really nice, unfiltered, wonderful light sour, with a lot of chewiness and body to it, like a big wheat beer, with a light frothiness to it.”

The aroma of open-air wild fermentation of chicha de jora, in chomba earthenware vats, fills the dirt-floor rooms in the adobe homes that are chicherías. Ubiquitous throughout the Sacred Valley, these chicherías announce a freshly brewed batch by flying a red bag on a large stick outside their door.

“It used to be red flowers, so you could see how new that batch was by the freshness of those flowers,” Mayorga says.

Cervecería del Valle Sagrado imports malts and hops from as far as Germany or Oregon, then adds native ingredients such as passion fruit, prickly pear seeds, squash, cacao nibs or coffee to infuse pale ale, red ale, saison and sour beers with Peruvian flavors. The process for brewing craft beer in a modern facility is controlled and consistent yet fundamentally the same as making chicha de jora.

For chicha de jora, germinated corn is milled, boiled, strained, then fermented for about three days. But because the corn’s origin can change daily and uncontrolled fermentation introduces variables such as fluctuating ambient temperature, chicha de jora can taste different from one day to the next, even at the same chichería.

Inspired by the ancient grain, Bhojwani and Mayorga wanted to know what a jora whiskey would taste like. The first step in their collaboration was sourcing the jora.

In Ollantaytambo, Tomasa and Juliana use their generational knowledge to brew chicha de jora like their ancestors. In their rustic chichería, they serve large caporal glasses of chicha de jora, straight from their open fermentation vats. The beer is best fresh, so they continuously make new batches for their local customers. Mayorga sources jora for the whiskey here.

To distill whiskey de jora, Destilería Andina follows the bourbon recipe—a 50% jora and 50% malt mash that they double-distill into an unaged, clear whiskey. “Instead of oak, it tastes like corn, like that smell of tamales, that moist, earthy, mother’s kitchen beautiful comforting smell,” Bhojwani says.

Corn is one of the most important crops in the Peruvian Andes, alongside potatoes and tubers like oca. But Bhojwani never imagined he would meet someone who was making an oca wine, much less that someday he would be distilling it into oca brandy.

Oca Brandy

In Huatata, an hour outside of Cusco and at an elevation of 12,270 feet, Indigenous farmer and agricultural engineer Manuel Choqque has been researching the crops of his ancestors for the past 15 years. “Our project consists of rescuing forgotten tubers like potato, oca, and mashua,” says Choqque of his mission.

He remembers that when he was a child, his father would give him raw oca to eat, much like an apple. That made Choqque think of oca as a fruit with a natural sweetness to it. Then, a fateful conversation with friends lead to a question: Is it possible to make wine from any sweet fruit? So, after returning home, Choqque began to evaluate and classify oca that could be fermented into wine.

“Of the 1,900 varieties of oca, we have 60 in our collection and then chose 10 for fermenting,” Choqque says of the oca varieties that had between 20 and 22 degrees Brix, ideal for converting the fruit into alcohol. To increase sugar levels, Choqque implements an ancestral technique—he soaks oca in water, exposes it to the high-elevation sun and crushes the tuber. Then he applies traditional winemaking methods.

When sommeliers first tasted Choqque’s oca wine, they asked him, “Is this Sauvignon or Chardonnay? What grape varietal is this?” But Choqque’s goal is not to replace or substitute grape wine, rather create a new category he calls oxalis, after the scientific name for oca. Through these sommeliers, Choqque met Bhojwani, who naturally invited him to visit Destilería Andina.

Bhojwani double-distills Choqque’s oca wine into an aguardiente or brandylike spirit that Choqque compares to an “aromatic pisco, generous, full-bodied, yet subtle, with the aroma of white flowers and herbs,” attributing its complexity to a late oca harvest.

“The more time the oca is underground, the more rich it becomes in terms of texture, aroma, and minerality,” Choqque says.

On a visit to Destilería Andina, Bhojwani offered Choqque some cañazo to gift to his parents. In the Quechua trueque tradition, Choqque returned the favor by gifting Bhojwani some of his potatoes. “By rescuing the trueque, we are cultivating friendship and a closeness that has been lost nowadays,” says Choqque, hoping to encourage other agricultural producers to participate in the ancestral practice.

Orujo

Curahuasi, the origin of Destilería Andina’s high-elevation once-distilled cañazo, is also the source for grapes. Though most of Peru’s wineries are located near the coast south of Lima, Curahuasi was once home to early vineyards, due to colonial foodways that made the Viceroyalty of Peru one of the first wine-producing regions in the Americas. Winemaker Fernando Gonzalez-Lattini seeks to revive that tradition here.

Named after mountain gods that protect crops in the Andes, Gonzalez-Lattini’s Apu Winery is one of the highest in the world, and rows of vines line the terraced mountainside. In 2017, its first vintage included Sauvignon Blanc.

The process involves harvesting the grapes, removing the stems, then pressing the grapes to separate the skin and seeds to obtain the juice that’s fermented into wine. Committed to a no-waste winemaking approach, the business collaborated with Destilería Andina to distill the pomace, or the leftover crushed grape skin and seeds.

But there was a deeper inspiration—Gonzalez-Lattini’s Italian heritage. His great-grandfather hailed from Italy’s winemaking region of Le Marche, and imbibing grappa was a family tradition. “They used to drink grappa after Sunday lunch meals,” he says. But out of respect for grappa’s origin, Gonzalez-Lattini opted for the term orujo, the name for Spain’s pomace brandy.

To prepare the pomace for distillation, Apu Winery adds fruits, sugar, water and yeast to the leftover grape skin and seeds to ferment the mixture. From there, Destilería Andina takes over. “Because we are distilling at altitude, things don’t burn in the still, alcohol is evaporating at a lower temperature,” Bhojwani says. “So, the orujo tastes very much like the wine, and where it comes from.”

“You can really taste grapefruit and smell the aroma of jasmine or eucalyptus,” says Gonzalez-Lattini about their Sauvignon Blanc orujo. It’s the Andean terroir’s limestone soil and cool nights that give grapes here their high acidity and minerality.

This orujo, together with the compuesto, cañazo, whiskey de jora, and oca aguardiente represent diverse spirits, producers, and ingredients throughout the Andes, yet they are intimately connected by one place—Destilería Andina.

Destilería Andina

Surrounded by mountains and tucked behind El Albergue’s farm, the wood shack with horizontal planks, cement floor and corrugated metal slanted roof that houses Destilería Andina blends in with Ollantaytambo’s rustic environment. Inside, the space looks like a well-used laboratory. Two large copper pot stills sit majestically opposite the sliding door entrance, and hand-labeled bottles with earthy-looking spirits infused with various native ingredients fill dusty wood shelves along the walls.

It was important to Bhojwani that Destilería Andina’s copper pot stills be traditionally made, so he traveled to Portugal to get them.

“I think they’re essentially the same shape of still that North Africans brought to Spain,” Bhojwani says. “They’re hand hammered, and the same families in the same regions have been making these probably for 1,500 years.”

These copper pot stills are versatile and have been used for generations to distill ancestral spirits like eau de vies and aguardientes from any fruits that are in season. But they are not automated. It requires skill to control the heat source, gas-fueled ring-shaped paella-pan burners that slowly cooks the fermentations for distillation.

Bhojwani believes that the high elevation here is an important factor that gives the spirits their delicate notes and makes them taste more like the original ingredients they are distilled from. “When you cook a spaghetti sauce at altitude, it takes forever for the tomatoes to break down, so it tastes a little raw,” Bhojwani says. “The potatoes are still a little al dente. So that has to be happening with the fermentation.”

Between 2018 and 2019, I traveled to the Sacred Valley and visited Destilería Andina, Cervecería del Valle Sagrado, Apu Winery and MIL, a restaurant that prepares dishes from Andean ingredients foraged at different elevations. I’ve sipped the compuesto, cañazo, chicha de jora, whiskey de jora, oca wine, high-elevation grape wine and orujo. And I thought that each drink was unique on its own, but what I found to be more profound was how they were all connected.

What the distiller, winemaker, brewer and farmer have created here is a true collective, a spirited community working with native ingredients and ancestral techniques that honor the heritage of the Andes. These spirits could not exist anywhere else, for they are as unique as the people and terroir of the Sacred Valley.

Whetstone originally published this story in 2022. Since then, the publication has shuttered and the story is no longer available online. So I am publishing an abbreviated version here to preserve my work, and to continue to give a voice to the distillers, brewers, winemakers, and farmers that are reshaping Peru’s drinking culture.

When I became a dad, The Paddington Treasury was one of the first books I placed on my child’s bookshelf. Of course we had other classics like Winnie the Pooh, The Cat in the Hat, and The Little Prince. But Paddington came from Peru, and being proud of my ancestry I wanted to instill a connection to Peru during story time.

On the surface, the misadventures of the anthropomorphic Peruvian bear are charming. The comical castaway that carries a jar of orange marmalade in case of emergencies ends up in London and troubles ensue. But as I dove into the character’s origin and stories, I began to uncover a problematic colonial narrative.

“Darkest Peru”

In Michael Bond’s 1958 debut book, A Bear Called Paddington, Mr. and Mrs. Brown ask the bear where he is from. Paddington replies, “Darkest Peru.” The author wanted his character to be from somewhere exotic. Originally, Paddington was to be from Africa, but because there are no bears there Africa became Peru.

However, the term “Darkest Peru” perpetuates the colonial notion that Western culture is civilized and others places (be it Peru or Africa) are dark or exotic and dangerous. As a result, these places are waiting to be discovered by white men who exploit cultures and write history from a Western perspective.

Now, Paddington does resemble the Andean spectacled bear, the only species native to South America that inhabits the mountains of Peru and neighboring countries. But to make him more civilized, the author has him sporting a British style coat and hat. And nothing about how Paddington is presented points to his true origin.

Immigrant Stories

Paddington’s story is that of an immigrant that has assimilated into British society. He lives with a middle-class family, speaks English, not Spanish or Quechua, is polite and tries not to stand out. That is, he has surrendered, or been pressured to surrender, his Peruvian identity. But what makes one Peruvian?

Do you need to speak Spanish or Quechua? Do you need to cook or eat traditional Peruvian food? Do you need to listen to Peruvian music? Do you need to read Peruvian literature? Do you need to live in Peru? Of course anyone can do all of those things, so what then defines identity?

As an immigrant myself, I believe that cultural identity is complex and can change over time. No matter where I’ve resided, and I’ve lived outside of Peru for more than half-century, Peru has always felt like home. Nothing compares to the feeling of being in the Andes mountains, or recalling the memories of my time there with family.

So, I’ve strived to preserve all the things that make me feel Peruvian. And I’m grateful that I’ve lived in places where that was possible. Unfortunately, even though he’s just a character in a story, it matters that Paddington was not afforded that same opportunity. The message, to children everywhere, is to fit in. But at what cost?

Postcolonial Whitewashing

In the tradition of Western explorers who reframe stealing land as a “discovery,” the Brown family discovered the bear at Paddington train station in London. And so they decided to call him Paddington. However, the bear’s original name was Pastuso, but using the excuse it was difficult to pronounce, they erased it.

This postcolonial whitewashing reminded me of recipe names, specifically for Peruvian dishes. I will always call causa by its original name, not something like “chilled potato salad.” Causa may not mean anything to a Western ear, but the name is Quechua for “sustenance,” so it’s imbued with cultural significance.

I don’t think anyone has asked a chef from Spain to rename gazpacho to “chilled tomato soup” so readers could understand what the dish is. Likewise with paella, the names carries a cultural identity and everyone had to learn its meaning. It should be the same for Peruvian dishes, and for Paddington’s name.

Lack of Accountability

Recently, my children asked to watch the Disney film The Jungle Book. They already knew most of the songs and had seen clips of the characters joyfully singing and dancing. But at the start of the film, there was a message I had not seen before:

“This program is presented as originally created. It may contain outdated cultural depictions.”

Disney finally admitting that their film has racial and cultural biases. Today, I am hoping we know better. But even the original story by Rudyard Kipling is written from a colonial perspective depicting a metaphorical caste system in the jungle.

I wish that the Paddington Bear books had a similar message. Some words to show accountability for the author’s “outdated cultural depictions.” But until that happens, it’s up to me as a father to come up with a solution.

Intergenerational Storytelling

Instead of banning Paddington Bear, I will continue to read the books to my children at story time. But as they get older I will encourage a dialogue about the character and what he represents. By being curious, and asking questions instead of simply condemning a book, we can explore ways to learn something from the stories.

My Quechua ancestors were storytellers. And as part of the Andean Cosmovision they sometimes told stories to heal and correct the past. I think in some ways we can do the same with Paddington Bear. One question could be, “Instead of saying the bear is from Darkest Peru, what can we say that decolonizes his origin?”

I am certain that the answer my children give will surprise me, as it will be something that never occurred to me. Perhaps the Paddington books, though flawed, are meant to give us an opportunity to participate in intergenerational storytelling. For only by reflecting on socio-colonial issues around the world can we strive to make it better.

But then in mid-2026 I came across Aire Libre, an organization that offers global running experiences. I met up with their founder, and by the end of our conversation over coffee I decided to sign up for the Copenhagen Half. So the focus of my training switched to road, with track workouts, tempo runs, cadence tests, plus long runs that’d gauge my fitness and speed for the upcoming race.

After landing in CPH, and dropping off my luggage at my Nordhavn hotel, I took the metro and bus to Kaf. The cafe offers vegan pastries and sandwiches like the Mafalda—a grilled cheese croissant—that I had with an oak milk flat white. From there, I went to the race expo at the Forum to get my bib, t-shirt, and drop bag. Now I was all set. And it was getting pretty real, real fast.

This year, the Copenhagen Half Marathon was part of the World Athletics Road Running Championships, and the organizers did a great job with their messaging. Banners all around the city proclaimed: ”The best runners on the planet, and you.” About 35,000 runners from all over the world were here, seeking PBs (personal bests) on a flat and fast course around the city. And I was one of them.

I had two full days before race day get over a 9-hour-difference jet lag. My throat was bothering me and I felt congested, so I got cough syrup and lozenges at an apotek (pharmacy). Getting plenty of sleep was a top priority, but during the day I went on shakeout runs by the water, and explored the food trucks in Broens. But for my customary carb-loading pre-race pizza I went to SURT.

When I woke up Sunday morning, about 3 hours before heading to the start, I was ecstatic—I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy before a race! First, I had some bread with jam and cafe con leche. Then I did yoga and leg activation exercises. I gave myself words of encouragement and visualized crossing the finish line in 2 hours 11 minutes, or 10 minutes per mile pace.

Before leaving, I preloaded with Precision Fuel & Hydration 1500 mg sodium. Then, a short but crowded metro ride took me to the runner’s area, where I dropped off my bag and did warm-up strides for 15 minutes before heading to the start. It was such a large crowd of runners that and it took almost 30 minutes of shuffling in a queue before we crossed the start line and began racing.

From the first city blocks, the energy was electric. Taiko drummers. Samba dancers. A cappella singers. DJs. Live music. It was a party in the streets, and it was impossible not to feel elated. The whole course was lined with roaring crowds cheering you on, “You can do it, Nico!” I focused on a steady cadence and after the first sub-10 minute mile I knew it was going to be a good day.

I carried my PF&H gels and electrolytes in a belt and had them at the miles 3, 5, 7, and 10 water stations. There were cups strewn everywhere and the road was sticky from sugary drinks. On trails, I was used to wearing a vest with water bottles, but not here, so I had to slow down to pick up cups of water at road-side tables and drink on the go. It’s a skill I still need to work on.

About half way through, I felt a large blister on my left toe, but my ultra running mentality helped me ignore it. Each kilometer brought me closer to the finish, and I enjoyed every step, even if it hurt. On the exit of a neon-lit tunnel, a DJ was blasting one of my favorite songs, “Vale la Pena (It’s Worth It),” by Juan Luis Guerra y 440, and as I ran by I sang along and shouted to myself, “¡Vamos coño!”

Juan Luis Guerra is a musician from the Dominican Republic. And the story goes that the band adopted the name 440 after a great jam session one day. The singer said something like, “Today we were 440,” as in the perfect 440 Hz frequency of the La musical note. So I took it as a positive sign that a DJ playing a tune by 440 meant that I was having a near 440 race, even if it rained.

I crossed the finish line in 2 hours 11 minutes with a pace of 9 minutes and 57 seconds per mile—a road half marathon PB! The crowd at the finish was smiling, embracing, taking selfies and group photos. I was moved by one runner, who pushed a person on a 3-wheeled racing chair the entire race. Soaked from the rain, I proudly wore my WRRC medal on the metro ride back to the hotel.

More than the satisfaction of having accomplished my goal, I felt grateful that my body can still do hard things. I’ve loved running on trails for more than two decades, and rediscovering a joy for running—now on roads—is pretty special. The experience of racing here was one of a true collective energy, among the runners and with the people of the city that celebrated our journey.

The day after the race all I wanted to do was eat. So I took a ferry to Reffen just to try a plant-based Nordic hot dog. Then I found a cozy cafe to read my book, The Way of the Runner, a personal dive into the world of ekiden (relay) racing in Japan. It made me think a lot about why I run and the spirit of community. That evening I was the first person in line at POPL and devoured their quinoa burger.

Shortly after returning home, I got back to training. And I thought of a Zen proverb:

Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water;
after enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.

Which, paraphrased, could apply to running:

Before the race, get up early, go for a run;
after the race, get up early, go for a run.

I’ve also been listing to “Vale la Pena (It’s Worth It)” on repeat. 🎵

A friend once commented that “El Cóndor Pasa” sounded like the 70s song “If I Could” by Simon & Garfunkel. Because “El Cóndor Pasa” was written in 1913 by Peru’s Daniel Alomía Robles, this was cultural theft. Consequently, the Peruvian composer’s family successfully sued the American musicians for copyright infringement. To this day, I am not a fan of Simon & Garfunkel.

Dad’s LPs defined my musical world at home. And just like Mom’s cooking, music was an integral part of our Peruvian identity. Back then, Peruvian music was not well known outside of Peru. But in 1995, everything changed with the release of The Soul of Black Peru, a compilation of Afro-Peruvian songs produced by David Byrne’s label Luaka Bop. This I was a fan of, and I played my CD on repeat.

Byrne, the lead singer of The Talking Heads, is the antithesis of Simon & Garfunkel when it comes to global music. Instead of stealing, Byrne celebrates, promotes, and shares the musical cultures of Peru, Brazil, Cuba, Asia, and Africa with the world. One song from The Soul of Black Peru stood out, “María Landó” by Susana Baca. Because of this exposure, she quickly gained international acclaim.

Eventually, Susana Baca toured around the world and won three Latin Grammy Awards. One time, I took my mom to see Susana Baca in concert, and the next day she cooked with my mom at a friend’s house while her band played for us. In her music, the cajón box drum marks the rhythms of Black Peru while the arrangements on guitar and bass introduce more modern jazz elements.

As a child, our parents took us to see Perú Negro at a local theatre. I was captivated by the Afro-Peruvian drumming and dancing of the national troupe. Susana Baca pays homage to many of the songs and traditions that Perú Negro rescued, largely due to the work of activist, singer, and choreographer Victoria Santa Cruz. Then, in the early 2000s, I heard the next evolution of Peruvian music: Novalima.

Founded by a group of musicians and DJs, Novalima fuses Afro-Peruvian rhythms with electronica. The voice and cajón are there, but so are the hard-driving electric guitar and bass, drum kit, timbales, synthesizer, plus DJ. To purists, this was an affront. But I’ve seen Novalima perform twice and truly appreciate how they promote Peru’s culture across a world that thrives on live concerts and dance club vibes.

“Camote” is a traditional Afro-Peruvian song by Caitro Soto and Rafael Santa Cruz. But in their version, Novalima adds a rocksteady beat and ska trumpet to make it a catchy and danceable tune that’s now popular in Peru and beyond. I think that this fusion not only works, but their music and lyrics educate the world about Peru’s Black history of resistance and resilience.

One of Peru’s greatest singers was Chabuca Granda, and many of her songs bring to life the Lima of yesteryear. “La Flor de la Canela” is one such song, a creole waltz with guitar and voice that begins:

Déjame que te cuente, limeño
Déjame que te diga la gloria
Del ensueño que evoca la memoria
Del viejo puente, del río y la alameda

Which translates to:

Let me tell you, Limeño (man from Lima)
Let me tell you about the glory
Of the daydream that evokes the memory
Of the old bridge, the river, and the promenade

For most of my life, when I recalled the song, I only heard the haunting voice of Chabuca Granda. But the contemporary Peruvian tenor Juan Diego Flórez altered that. The posthumous duet with Chabuca Granda brings together a Peruvian classic and the world of opera. So this is yet another fusion of musical styles that is still deeply Peruvian in soul with voices that powerfully proclaim Lima’s memories.

As much as Peru’s creole and Afro-Peruvian music have evolved, I always thought Andean music would stay the same, with musicians singing in Quechua and playing the pan flute, charango guitar, or bass drum. My mom loved listening and dancing to old Huayno songs from her Andean home. But after I heard Renata Flores, I realized Andean music had entered a new era.

The young diva is preserving the language of her ancestors by singing pop songs in Quechua. Her interpretation of Michael Jackson’s “The Way You Make Me Feel” is one way to inspire Peru’s Andean youth—who are already captivated by pop music—to learn about their roots and their language. Renata Flores is also a powerful voice for feminism, and I think my mom would’ve liked her music and mission.

Years ago, on a trip to Lima with my mom and dad, I saw the documentary Sigo Siendo (Still Being), a musical journey across Peru from the Amazon, to the Andes Mountains, to coastal Afro-Peruvian communities. It reminded me that Peru’s music is as diverse as its geography, culture, and its people. In Sigo Siendo (Still Being) musicians across Peru share their connections to music and life:

“I don’t think anyone can live without music, can you live without music?”
”That is life, dancing, adding more life to life, that is life.”
”Each musical vibration gives me life.”

After more than half a century of listening to Peruvian music, I can say this: just like we grow, change, and evolve, music does too. So let’s sing pop in Quechua, listen to an operatic creole waltz, or dance to an Afro-Peruvian song with electronica beats. By doing so we may be changing musical traditions but also keeping them alive, honoring them, and making Peruvian music accessible across generations.

During a family visit to Toronto almost two decades ago, my dad announced that he was going to start training for a half marathon. Immediately, I said that I would fly back and run it with him. Back then, I was racing a lot on trails: a half marathon here, a marathon there, plus a few 50-mile ultras. But this would also be my first road half marathon, and I was excited to share the experience with Dad.

Once we decided on a race, we laid out a training plan. Mostly, my dad would run 5 km loops in our neighborhood. During the summer I was able to join Dad on a few training runs, while my brother provided tips on stretching.

So on Sunday October 18, 2009, on a cold morning in Toronto, my Dad toed the line of his first half marathon, and as his pacer I ran with him every step of the way. The entire family supported Dad on race weekend. Mom cooked a pre-race Peruvian-style carb-loading pasta dinner, and my brother dropped us off at the start then picked us up at the finish.

I remember that when I was a kid, Dad and I would sometimes get up to run before dawn. The streets were deserted, and the uniformly spaced street lamps cast our moving shadows on the pavement. I didn’t realize it then, but that routine instilled in me a strong discipline that I’ve carried with me the rest of my life. The discipline of getting up early, for running, for school, for work. My dad loved early mornings. I think that if he wasn’t an engineer, he would have been a baker, just to get up early.

The half marathon (13.1 miles) started at 8 a.m., an hour before the full marathon (26.2 miles), so we were up by 5 a.m. to have our morning café con leche before heading off to the start line. It was below freezing, but I still wore shorts. However, I told Dad that he should wear track pants. Over 5,000 runners were lined up at the start, all ready for the adventure ahead.

The course started in North York and headed south along Yonge St and then Bayview Ave, before turning due west along Front St, past the St Lawrence Market, and finishing up University Ave at Queen’s Park next to the University of Toronto. Though it was cold, whenever we ran in the sun I would say it was warm:

¡Uy, qué rico sol, qué calorcito!

Though Dad trained a run / walk combination, he ran most of the race while I did my best to keep him hydrated and motivated. I carried water bottles for him so that he would not have to stop at aid stations.

Toma un poquito de agua.

And kept an eye on our pace and progress.

Estamos bien de hora.

I also carried gels for fueling and Tylenol, which came in handy, and I told him he looked strong.

Te ves muy fuerte, papi.

Though this was his first race, running was not new to my dad. In his 30s and 40s I saw him play fútbol with friends, sprinting across the pitch. And he was also a strong tennis player that quickly shuffled side to side on the court, relentlessly running down every shot. It turns out he had been training for a half marathon for a while.

Throughout the race, I reminded my dad that all he had to do was his usual 5 km training run 4 times, and a bit more. He estimated it would take about 3 and a half or 4 hours to finish, and I told him I would bring him in under 3 hours.

A few miles from the finish, the race’s lead vehicle with flashing lights went by. I glanced behind and there was a Kenyan marathoner about to pass us. So for a brief moment, a Peruvian father and son were ahead of the Kenyans, though we started an hour before they did and only had to run half as far.

Dad crossed the finish line in 2 hours and 54 minutes, and I was very proud that he finished top 10 in his age group. All day, my dad showed real perseverance. He was in pain, he was cold, he was tired, but he never stopped moving. And in his early 70s he taught me that it’s never too late to do something physically challenging, like race a road half marathon for the first time.

To my Quechua ancestors corn was an integral element of their food and drink culture. And today, families from Lima to the Andes boil maiz morado (purple corn) to make a spiced elixir that is the base for chicha morada—a traditional non-alcoholic drink. It’s so popular in Lima that corner markets stock various chicha morada powder packets, much like instant Kool-Aid, for those seeking a quick fix.

But living in the Pacific Northwest, I strive to cook with local ingredients. So instead of using imported Peruvian purple corn, this version subs in blueberries. The drink’s aromatics come from syrup spiced with cinnamon, cloves, and orange peel. While the lime juice, fresh mint, and blueberries on a toothpick give the drink a cocktail vibe that celebrates summer.

I think this drink would have delighted my mom, she really liked chicha morada and was a big fan of blueberries. I wish I could make this drink for her and pair it with the blueberry muffins that she used to bake for us.

Blueberry Chicha

1 Serving

• 2 ounces blueberry purée

• 1 ounce spiced syrup

• 1 ounce fresh lime juice

• ice

• lime round, for garnish

• mint sprig, for garnish

• blueberries on a toothpick, for garnish

Blueberry Purée

• 1/2 cup fresh blueberries

• 5 ounces water

Spiced Syrup

• 1/2 cup water

• 1/2 cup cane sugar

• 1 cinnamon stick

• 2 cloves

• peel from half an orange

For the blueberry purée, in a tall container, combine 1/2 cup fresh blueberries with 5 ounces water. Blend with an immersion blender then pass the purée through a fine mesh strainer into a mason jar. Compost the leftover skin.

For the spiced syrup, in a saucepan over medium to high heat, combine 1/2 cup water, 1/2 cup cane sugar, 1 cinnamon stick, 2 cloves, and the peel from half an orange. Bring to a gentle boil, reduce the heat, and stir to dissolve the sugar. Simmer for 5 minutes to let the spices infuse into the liquid. Remove from the heat, strain into a mason jar, and let cool before using. Compost the spices and peel.

In an 8 ounce glass or mason jar with ice, combine 2 ounces blueberry purée, 1 ounce syrup, and 1 ounce lime juice. Stir vigorously to mix well. Garnish with a lime round, mint sprig, and blueberries on a toothpick.

For more than a decade, Lima has been the world's top culinary destination. And dishes like ceviche, causa, palta rellena, antichuchos, and lomo saltado have shaped its comida criolla (creole cuisine). But in the city’s jerga criolla (creole slang), Peruvian food terms take on other meanings.

Recently, I came across a vibrant chicha style art by Nación Chicha that declares:

“Eres el ají de mi ceviche.”

Ají is hot pepper, the vital element in Lima’s creole dishes. And ceviche is Peru’s national dish of fish cured with lime juice, salt, ají, and onions. A direct translation is “You are the hot pepper in my ceviche,” but the true meaning is more like:

“You are the spice in my life.”

Beyond this colorful and romantic example, food terms appear in other popular phrases. Listen carefully as you walk down the bustling streets of Lima. There is the commanding pierce of a traffic cop’s whistle, cars honking their way through busy intersections, the aging roar of diesel-engine buses, street vendors shouting about their offerings, and creole songs pouring out of bars. But cutting through those urban sounds are limeños (people from Lima) conversing with colloquial phrases:

“¿Oye causa, cuál es tu cau cau?”

“¡Llegué tarde a la chamba, qué piña!”

“Dame un huachito que me siento lechero.”

“Para llegar a la playa anda de fresas por esa calle.”

“¡Por gusto me preocupé, fué papayita!”

“Pídele su número, no seas palta.”

“Tiene plata como cancha.”

“Ya deja de estar enojado y pela los choclos.”

“¡Chaufa, nos vemos el fin de semana!”

Even if you are fluent in Spanish, did you catch all of that? Perhaps you recognized some traditional creole dishes, such as causa, or fruits and vegetables like piña (pineapple), fresas (strawberries), or palta (avocado). But what do these phrases mean? Let’s dissect them one by one:

“¿Oye causa, cuál es tu cau cau?” — Causa, the chilled potato mash with savory toppings, is a close friend. While cau cau, the tripe and potato stew with yellow hot peppers, is a problem. Combined, you get, “Hey buddy, what’s your problem?”

“¡Llegué tarde a la chamba, qué piña!” — Chamba, derived from chamber of commerce, means your job, and piña is to have bad luck. So “I arrived late to work, how unlucky!” is a way to explain your tardiness.

“Dame un huachito que me siento lechero.” — Huachito is a partial lottery ticket, and lechero is someone who has good fortune. So a person who is lechero could say, “Give me a lotto, I am feeling lucky.”

“Para llegar a la playa anda de fresas por esa calle.” — Fresas are strawberries, but it is a play on de frente (straight ahead). Directions to the playa (beach) then become, “To get to the beach go straight ahead on that street.”

“¡Por gusto me preocupé, fué papayita!” — Papaya means something that was easy (papayita is the fruit’s diminutive), and preocupar is to worry. So if something isn’t as hard as expected, you’d say, “I worried for nothing, it was easy!”

“Pídele su número, no seas palta.” — Palta is what Peruvians call an avocado and it stands for being shy or embarrassed. So a friend’s encouragement to get someone’s contact information becomes, “Ask for their number, don’t be shy.”

“Tiene plata como cancha.” — Cancha is the snack of Andean toasted corn kernels that overflow from a bowl at a bar. It’s synonymous for a large amount of something like plata (money). So the phrase means, “They have lots of money.”

“Ya deja de estar enojado y pela los choclos.” — Choclo is Quechua for corn. So, pela los choclos (peel corn husks) is to show your teeth (that resemble corn kernels) and smile. You’d say, “Stop being upset and smile,” to someone enojado (angry).

“¡Chaufa, nos vemos el fin de semana!” — In Lima we say chau for goodbye. Here, chaufa, the Chifa (Chinese-Peruvian) fried-rice dish, is a play on chau. Fin de semana is weekend, so a farewell could be, ”Goodbye, see you next weekend!”

That the language of food spills over into daily life is one of the elements of criollismo. This slang speak is a form of hip code-switching that limeños use to show that they have calle (street smarts), and transforms quotidian phrases into something playful.

Listen for these jerga criolla phrases when you travel to Lima. Their meaning goes beyond the food you’ll be eating there, and if you practice a little bit, you’ll be sounding like a limeño in no time. Until my next newsletter, chaufa!

I’ve finished the high-elevation Leadville trail marathon seven times. So on June 2026, I was confident of getting my 8th finish. But things didn’t go as planned. Yet, there’s so much I’ve learned from the Colorado mountain town.

In 2010, I ran the Inca Trail Marathon in Peru’s Andes Mountains—a point to point race with more than 10,000 ft. of vertical gain and two summits over 13,000 ft. elevation. There, I met a runner who invited me to her summer home in Leadville, Colorado, to experience running there. I had no idea how much that invitation would shape my life as a runner.

Since my first trip to Leadville, I’ve finished the grueling trail marathon seven times: 2013, 2014, 2015, 2019, 2023, 2024, and 2025. In 2019, I introduced my now wife to Leadville and was delighted that she witnessed my 4th finish. Then, after Covid, I returned to Leadville with my wife and our two children, so that I could complete my 5th marathon on the same day of our son’s first birthday.

Year after year, I always put Leadville on my race calendar. And all the races before Leadville were just preparation for the race that I longed to return to. I was proud to say I raced there, made friends there, and was part of the running community there.

On each return trip, I’d catch up with friends I hadn’t seen in years, and our time and distance apart dissolved after a few sips of coffee at City on a Hill. I’d like to think that all those hundreds of miles on those mountain trails shaped my identity as a runner. But it wasn’t just the mountains, it was the people I ran with.

So this year, I thought I was ready for my 8th marathon. I added more hill workouts to my training. I underwent a gait analysis to improve my form, efficiency, and speed. I slept in an altitude tent to adapt to the high elevation. And I continued to work with my coach. We made the 2026 Leadville trail marathon one of my A-races for the year, and I had the ambitious goal of setting a PR (personal record).

Instead, I DNFd (did not finish). My fueling and hydration strategy was solid, so I know I was taking enough carbohydrates and electrolytes (thank you Precision Fuel & Hydration!) But I felt extremely lethargic from the very beginning of the race, making every climb and long, exposed section painfully slow and more challenging than in previous years. Even after realizing my PR was unattainable, my pace wasn’t fast enough to finish before the cutoff. So I made the difficult decision to stop running.

I am still trying to figure out what went wrong, but in the meantime, I’m practicing being grateful for all the lessons that Leadville has taught me:

Suffering is easier with friends. I often train alone, but a race feels like a group effort. We are all in it together. We choose to suffer together. It’s never easy, but it’s definitely easier to suffer when you are part of a community with a shared goal.

Encouraging others fuels your spirit. To make it through the suffering we encourage each other. “Nice work!” “You are almost at the aid station!” Every word fuels a runner who may be struggling. And that unselfish support fuels you too.

Showing up is already a victory. There are never any guarantees when you start a race. But being committed to your training and showing up, daring to try something hard is already a win. Racing is a choice, and a real privilege.

Consistency is a powerful thing. A consistent training routine can appear boring to many. But that consistency, running when tired, when it’s raining, when it’s cold, day after day is what makes you mentally strong and able to persevere in tough situations.

Connecting with nature is an honor. Anton Krupicka talks about running being one of the simplest and purest forms of movement in the mountains, and how running connects you to your surroundings. To my ancestors, the earth and mountains are sacred, so running to connect with Pachamama is an honor for me.

There’s a quote by Anthony Bourdain about traveling, and I think that paraphrased it applies to running, and my time in Leadville too:

"Running isn't always pretty. It isn't always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that's okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. Leadville leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind."

Throughout Peru, locals cultivate and cook with native tomatoes. These tomatoes appear in stir-fries, salads, and stews. Here, Spain’s emblematic chilled soup journeys to one of the ancestral homes of the tomato, the Andes Mountains.

Gazpacho Andino

Chilled tomato soup with quinoa.

Serves 4

Gazpacho—the chilled tomato soup from Spain’s southern Andalucia region—cools the palate on hot summer days. A simple base recipe blends tomato, garlic, bread, salt, vinegar, and olive oil. In some variations, cucumber, strawberry, or watermelon replace the tomato. But tomatoes are native to the Americas.

The word “tomato” comes from the Náhuatl “xitomatl” and Indigenous peoples in Mexico and Peru cultivated the fruit long before colonial foodways brought the tomato to Europe. Can you imagine Spanish or Italian food without tomatoes?

This recipe pays homage to the Indigenous roots of the tomato using local ingredients. Colorful heirloom tomatoes at peak season burst with flavor, Andean quinoa adds protein and texture, while chopped mint provides aromatics reminiscent of Peru’s wild huacatay herb.

• 2 bread slices, crust removed

• 1 cup cold water

• 1 1/2 pounds heirloom tomatoes, cored and chopped into 1-inch pieces

• 1 garlic clove, peeled

• 1/2 teaspoon sea salt

• 1 teaspoon white wine vinegar

• 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

• cooked quinoa, for garnish

• chopped mint, for garnish

In a bowl, tear the bread slices by hand and mix with cold water. I like using a rustic country bread or a baguette instead of plain white bread. Use a fork to mash the bread and form a chunky porridge.

In a tall blender, add the tomato pieces and garlic clove and blend on high for 30 seconds. Pour in the bread porridge and blend on high for 30 seconds. Add the salt, white wine vinegar, and olive oil and blend on high for 30 seconds.

Transfer the soup to a container, seal, and chill for three hours. Before serving, use a spoon to stir the liquid in the container to obtain a smooth and creamy consistency. Serve in bowls and garnish with cooked quinoa and chopped mint.

I was supposed to race a 21K in Whistler, but family obligations kept me closer to home. So instead of running the race I had planned, I ran the race I needed.

Two days before the first weekend in June, I was supposed to go to Whistler for a half-marathon, but I had to stay closer to home, so my wife suggested, “Why don’t you run the GreenTrail instead?” I pivoted and nabbed one of the last remaining spots for the 21K. Immediately, I messaged the race director who was happy to hear I was in. In late May, I joined a run group that was training on the GreenTrail course, and now I was excited to be racing in these familiar North Vancouver trails.

The format was different from other races I’ve done. Runners had 70 minutes to complete a 7 km course that started and finished in a race village set up with tents for food and sponsors. The 6:00 a.m. starters ran six loops for a marathon, and I lined up at 9:30 a.m. for a three-loop half-marathon. It was great how the energy of the race increased as more runners joined the start line after each loop. That way, everyone—from the marathoners to the 7 km runners—shared one last loop.

The 7 km climb-up-and-then-fly-down course was fairly runnable, with a few roots and rocks along the way, a short steep scramble near the summit, plus some road sections connecting the trails to the start / finish race village. On my training run I had completed the course in about an hour so my goal was to finish each of my three loops in less than an hour; this was a race, after all. So I figured that if I focused on quick descents I would make up any time spent on the slower-paced climbs.

Since this race was close to home, my wife and kids met me at the start of my first loop, saw me finish it, and waved goodbye in the rain as I started my second loop. Throughout the first loop, the overcast and cool conditions were near perfect. All I carried in my vest was a 500ml flask with water, 30g Precision Fuel & Hydration gels, plus sodium capsules for fueling every 30 minutes or so. But on the second loop it started to pour and hail, so I slowed down a bit.

On the last loop, I gave it my all, and pushed through some leg fatigue in order to finish under the 70 minutes time limit. Loop after loop I saw the same runners—we ran together, we pushed each other, I passed some, others passed me, while volunteers cheered us on at various checkpoints. And when I crossed the finish line, it seemed everyone was there to welcome me back. It felt great to be part of a community formed by runners, volunteers, race organizers, sponsors, and families.

Post-race, I congratulated the runners I had seen throughout the day, thanked the race organizers, and promised that I’d be back next year. And when I returned home, my kids asked me, “Did you run so fast Papa? Did you win the race?” I tried to explain that I placed in my M55-59 age group, that I was happy I had a good race, and that everyone who finished earned a medal. But more importantly, as a dad I want them to know that you can accomplish anything when you find a community to run with.

In Peru’s creole culture, food and music are inseparable. And just like sommeliers pair wine with food, I like to pair songs with dishes. In the case of dulce de camote, there’s an Afro-Peruvian song that is the perfect accompaniment.

Dulce de Camote

Sweet potato pudding, but make it Afro-Peruvian.

Serves 8

In Peru’s creole cuisine, sweet potato is a key ingredient in picarones, ceviche, and pan con chicharron. And though Indigenous peoples throughout South America have cultivated and cooked sweet potato for thousands of years, it was enslaved Afro-descendants that turned sweet potato mash into a dessert sweetened with sugar, made creamy with milk, and spiced with cinnamon and cloves.

Afro-Peruvian singer Lucila Campos gives the camote (sweet potato) musicality in “Saca Camote con el Pie.” The song’s chorus means, “to remove the [buried] sweet potato with your feet,” but it’s really about dancing, and celebrating life, as the lyrics invite energetic foot stomping. Modern Afro-Peruvian band Novamila fuses traditional Black rhythms with electronica in an updated version, “Camote.”

In this dulce de camote, soy milk makes it plant-based while cinnamon, cloves, and vanilla extract add warmth, depth, and complexity. Sweet vermouth gives it a boozy aromatic hit and colorful sprinkles impart a playful elegance to the creamy mash. I don’t think you’ll have any leftovers, but if you do, refrigerate in a sealed container. And don’t forget to play Afro-Peruvian music while cooking.

• 1 pound sweet potato, peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes

• 1 cinnamon stick

• 4 cloves

• 3 cups water

• 1/2 cup soy milk

• 1/2 cup raw sugar

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 2 tablespoons sweet vermouth

• sprinkles, for garnish

In a 2-quart pot over medium heat, combine the sweet potato, cinnamon, cloves, and water. Bring to a simmer and cook until the sweet potato is fork tender, about 20 minutes.

Strain the sweet potato and transfer to a bowl. Compost the cinnamon and cloves. Use a fork to mash the sweet potato into a soft purée. Return the mashed sweet potato to the pot.

Mix in the soy milk, sugar, and vanilla extract. Bring to a simmer, and stir to thicken, about 5 minutes. Add the vermouth, and continue to stir another 5 minutes. Remove from the heat.

Serve warm in small ramekins and decorate with sprinkles.

Mario Vargas Llosa made me cry twice: when he won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2010, and when he died in 2025. The rest of the time, he immersed me in the tragic, comic, and nostalgic worlds he created in his novels and from which I emerged changed and with a longing to tell Peruvian stories.

When people burned Vargas Llosa’s first novel La Ciudad y Los Perros (The Time of the Hero), a semi-biographical account of Lima’s infamous military academy, he said, “Well, that’s an extraordinary compliment.” His courage to speak out about politics and social inequality made him a powerful, controversial, and fearless writer. Because of that, for more than 30 years I’ve been collecting his stories that have taken me across eras from Lima to the Andes to the Amazon and beyond.

My mom told me that when she was a law student at the National University of San Marcos in Lima circa 1960, Vargas Llosa was a year ahead and she would see him walking around campus. In particular, Mom recalled his red-haired friend who inspired a character in El Hablador (The Storyteller), a novel about a university student who leaves Lima’s modern civilization to become a storyteller for a tribe in Peru’s Amazon.

“Storytellers are a tangible proof that storytelling can be something more than mere entertainment... Something primordial, something that the very existence of a people may depend on.” — Mario Vargas Llosa

I think that is why The Storyteller is my favorite of Vargas Llosa’s novels, for it made me realize that I have a sacred duty to be a culinary storyteller, like my mom.

Much like her cooking, storytelling came naturally to my mom. Perhaps because it’s an important element in the Indigenous culture of our ancestors, where recipes are passed down orally across generations. Now, through my cooking and writing, I strive to preserve Peru’s food and drink culture and create a bridge that connects the traditions of the past to the present.

In 1988, my mom and I attended the Harbourfront Reading Series in Toronto to see Adrienne Clarkson interview Mario Vargas Llosa. They chatted about literature and politics, two inseparable themes throughout Latin America. Their conversation was humorous, candid, and refreshingly intellectual. To end their encounter, Clarkson asked whether Vargas Llosa entering politics would interfere with his writing, to which Vargas Llosa quipped, “Oh yes. That will be a catastrophe for my writing.”

At the end of the night, my mom and I approached Vargas Llosa. She introduced herself, and told him how they shared an alma mater. Vargas Llosa was intrigued and pensive, perhaps recalling his university days decades ago. Toronto is some 3,000 miles from Lima, yet at that moment my mom and Vargas Llosa had a brief connection that took them home. I can only imagine the longer conversation my mom would’ve had with Vargas Llosa if they had met at a cafe in Lima instead.

When I told him I was an engineering student he said I chose a noble profession. I think Vargas Llosa would smile if he knew that today I am a writer and a cook, and that I still hold dear my copy of La Guerra del Fin del Mundo (The War at the End of the World) that he autographed that night.

Two years later, amidst death threats during his campaign, Vargas Llosa ran for president of Peru, losing to Alberto Fujimori. In one essay, he recalls leaving a podium after a speech at a plaza in Lima. But before he could make it to his entourage, a car cut him off, a group of men forced him in, and took off. At that moment, Vargas Llosa thought he was dead. But instead, the men said, “We are your new bodyguards.” Their brazen act was proof positive Vargas Llosa’s current protection was inadequate. They thought Vargas Llosa was too important, so they stepped in.

In 2010, Vargas Llosa won the Nobel Prize in Literature. The first for a Peruvian. Though it was a singular achievement it truly felt like a prize for all Peruvians, and the recognition of our stories made us all proud. Years before, in a television program, the host asked Vargas Llosa:

Host: Is there a Latin American who deserves the Nobel Prize in Literature?

Vargas Llosa: Of course, I think Borges deserves it, I think Octavio Paz from Mexico is an author who deserves it. I think our literature has authors who are capable of receiving that recognition.

Host: Any Peruvians?

Vargas Llosa: Well, I don’t know if a contemporary Peruvian author is at the level of the aforementioned authors, but I hope there will be one, soon.

Vargas Llosa’s modesty, at not including himself as worthy of the Nobel Prize, is striking and in sharp contrast to all the accolades he’s earned throughout his long career shaped by the hard work, discipline, and artistry demanded of a novelist.

“The Nobel Prize in Literature 2010 was awarded to Mario Vargas Llosa for his cartography of structures of power and his trenchant images of the individual's resistance, revolt, and defeat" — The Nobel Foundation.

A decade ago, when I used to teach at a community cooking school in San Francisco, my brother sent me a verse from Vargas Llosa’s novel Lituma en los Andes (Death in the Andes). One character is consoling the broken-hearted protagonist who is investigating mysterious disappearances in a mining camp and tells him that eating traditional creole dishes is the antidote for his romantic woes:

Tamales, anticuchos, chicharrones con camote, ceviche de corvina, rocotos rellenos, conchitas a la parmesana, causa a la limeña and ice cold beers. That is the beginning. Then, ají de gallina with white rice and seco de cabrito. And to end the afternoon, mazamorra morada with turrón de doña Pepa. Before getting to the seco de cabrito you will have forgotten about her forever.

That inspired me to create a Valentine’s Day dinner: A Peruvian Pop-up to Cure a Broken Heart, which included dishes from the list. And so, Vargas Llosa’s stories have not only fueled my passion for writing, they have also influenced my cooking.

When Vargas Llosa died in 2025, I was sad that one of my favorite storytellers was gone. Every few years, he’d publish a new novel, which I would read and add to my library. That routine was a constant in my life. But even without that, I still have work to do. I need to track down a few novels I missed, reread old favorites, and most importantly keep alive the longing to tell Peruvian stories.

On April 24, I ran the UTMB Canyons 25K in Auburn, CA, to kick off my 2026 racing season. And though I fell short of my overall goal, I learned some lessons and accomplished a few things that made me proud.

After more than 20 years of racing, I am used to waking up early for a 6 a.m. start. So for Friday’s race it was strange to wait until 4 p.m. to toe the line. But my pre-race routine was largely the same: coffee and a bagel for breakfast, yoga, stretching, and muscle activation, followed by a short shakeout run. Then, just wait.

About 90 minutes before the race, I drank my Precision Fuel & Hydration 1500mg sodium solution to make sure I started well hydrated, and right before the race I had one 30g gel. In my belt I carried gels, electrolyte capsules, and two 500ml flasks with water. My plan was simple: refuel every 30 minutes and refill water at aid stations.

The race started and finished in downtown Auburn, and the course was essentially an out and back on the Western States trails due east towards Cool. It was sunny and warm, in the high 60s, which felt more like 70s or 80s on the exposed sections at high effort. With about 2,400 ft. of vertical gain, there were only two big climbs, the rest was classic, fairly runnable Northern California trail surfing.

At the start, a group of 20 or so elite runners took off first, then 3 minutes later everyone else funneled through a small gate to avoid congestion at the trail head. Next to me, a runner gave me a fist bump and said, “I like your shirt, brother.” And when the race organizers asked who wanted to go through the funnel first, the same runner pointed at me and yelled, “The guy with the shirt!”

The start was fast. The first section was a short road climb towards Robie Point then downhill to the trails that lead to the legendary No Hands Bridge at mile 3.5, the first aid station. By that point, I had passed a lot of runners, even on narrow trail descents, and was in 7th place overall. This was much speedier than last year, and I felt good about my chances of achieving my goal of finishing in 3 hours.

But the first big climb slowed me down quite a bit. Had I gone out too fast? Hands on knees, I finished the 1 mile climb and made it to the second aid station. Then soaked my feet in the bogs and creek crossings along the 2 mile loop around Cool. After refilling my bottles at mile 8.5 it was time to head back to Auburn. But although I had energy to keep going, my legs felt exhausted.

The downhill towards No Hands Bridge at mile 12.5 was smooth but not as quick as I’ve done before. From there I had only 3 miles to go, mostly uphill. Slowly, with a combo of jogging and walking I made it to Robie Point, and soon heard the cheers of the crowd and music at the finish line. I ran it in, and as I crossed the finish line in 3 hours and 50 minutes the song that was playing made me feel like dancing.

Post-race, I had mixed emotions. I missed my goal of finishing in 3 hours but was happy with my fast, confident start. My body also reminded me to focus on hydrating more during strong efforts. And I finished 8th in my M55-59 age group, which accomplished by B goal of being in the top 10, despite finishing 30 minutes slower than last year. I think Mick Jagger summed it up nicely:

You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometime you'll find
You get what you need 🎵

Throughout the race, I got lots of comments on my race kit, and my shirt, which made me smile and feel proud to be a Precision Fuel & Hydration ambassador. So, I am happy that my race season has started, and that I showed up and tried to really race. Now, to recover, start a new training block, and get ready for my next race!

Cooking in Afro-Peruvian communities is an act of resistance that celebrates and preserves the culinary traditions of Black Peru. One iconic dish from those communities is carapulcra, a spicy and hearty potato or garbanzo stew.

Carapulcra de Garbanzos

Afro-Peruvian chickpea stew with peanuts.

Serves 4

Carapulcra is an ancestral stew that my Quechua and Inca ancestors made with papa seca (dehydrated potatoes). Families that migrated from the Andes mountains to the coast brought the stew with them. Over time, creole cooks incorporated cloves, cinnamon, and anise. Today, Afro-descendant communities in the town of Chincha south of Lima prepare three versions: papa seca, fresh potato, or chickpea carapulcra—and all of them are part of the soul food of Black Peru. Here, toasting dry chickpeas adds smoky flavor and crunchy texture, native Peruvian hot peppers aji panca and aji amarillo give heat to the onion aderezo base, and five spice adds aromatics. Peanut butter makes the stew creamy, while agave and red wine provide balance and depth. Colorful pickled cabbage brightens the dish. Accompany the carapulcra with a side of steamed rice to absorb the stew’s savory juices.

Pickled Purple Cabbage

• 2 cups thinly sliced purple cabbage strips

• 2 teaspoons lime juice

• 1 teaspoon white wine vinegar

• dash salt

Stew

• 1 cup dried chickpeas

• 4 cups water

• 4 tablespoons peanut oil

• 1 cup diced red onion

• 2 garlic cloves, minced

• 2 teaspoons aji panca paste

• 2 teaspoons aji amarillo paste

• 1/2 teaspoon salt

• 1/2 teaspoon pepper

• 1/2 teaspoon cumin

• 1/2 teaspoon oregano

• 1 teaspoon five spice

• 2 cups vegan beef stock

• 1 tablespoon creamy peanut butter

• 4 tablespoons agave

• 3 tablespoons red wine (such as Malbec)

• cilantro leaves and roasted peanuts for garnish

Combine the purple cabbage, lime juice, white wine vinegar, and salt in an airtight container. Seal and shake well to mix. Refrigerate for 1 hour before using.

In a dry skillet over medium heat, toast the dried chickpeas, stirring often, until they begin to brown, about 8 minutes. Transfer the toasted chickpeas to a large pot, and cover with at least 1-inch water, about 4 cups. Bring to a boil, then turn off heat, cover, and let soak for 2 hours. Strain before using.

In a 2-quart pot with peanut oil over medium heat, sauté the red onion with garlic until the onion becomes translucent, about 5 minutes. Mix in aji panca, aji amarillo, salt, pepper, cumin, oregano, and five spice. Stir occasionally, for 5 more minutes.

Add the toasted chickpeas plus the stock, stir well to mix. Bring to a simmer and cook until the liquid reduces to the level of the chickpeas, about 30 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in the peanut butter, agave, and red wine. Let rest for 10 minutes.

Serve the stew in bowls and top with pickled cabbage. Garnish with cilantro leaves and roasted peanuts. Accompany with a side of steamed white rice.

To infuse the dish with the soulfulness of Black Peru, play some Afro-Peruvian music while you are cooking. Here’s a song by the iconic group Peru Negro:

In 2021, El Pais published an article about how the economy of nostalgia is shaped by the food products that immigrants acquire during trips back home. The author interviewed me about Inca Kola, the soda that became more popular than Coca Cola in Peru. To this day, it’s my favorite soda. Below are some excerpts which I translated from the original Spanish to English, with edits for clarity and brevity.

Peru’s Inca Kola

Peruvians often enjoy drinking Inca Kola with Chinese-Peruvian chifa food. Its bright yellow color resembles that of a highlighter pen and its flavor is somewhere between lemon verbena and bubble gum. It was sold for the first time in 1935 and since the 60s its advertising has linked the soda to the Peruvian identity. One slogan claimed Inca Kola was “The taste of Peru!”

With the economic crisis that affected Peru in the 80s and 90s, millions of Peruvians migrated and without international distribution cans of Inca Kola became precious, nostalgic gifts to those living abroad.

Nico Vera, a vegan Peruvian chef, remembers the soda as his favorite childhood beverage. “I drank it with arroz chaufa (chifa fried rice) or a sánguche (creole sandwich) for lunch, or to quench my thirst during warm summer days.” But when his parents moved their family from Peru to the Dominican Republic and then to Canada, he longed for the soda.

“In the 70s and 80s Peruvian products were not yet available where we lived, and we missed turrón de doña Pepa (anise-flavored nougat sticks layered with raw sugar syrup and topped with colorful candy sprinkles), panetón (sweet, fluffy bread with candied fruit), D’Onofrio ice cream, and Inca Kola. But when we travelled to Peru, we brought back some of those products to enjoy them on special occasions, like Peruvian Independence Day on July 28.”

Today, Inca Kola is available outside Peru with bottling factories in the United States and Chile. And a New Jersey based company founded in 1999 distributes the drink across the US and also in Japan, Australia, and Spain, among other countries.

“What I now realize is that we always had other options, there were other sodas like Coca Cola, but we always chose Inca Kola. I think that our food and drinks make us proud because they are part of our cultural identity,” he adds.

Today, I can get Inca Kola at local Latino markets. And although it’s not a chifa, our favorite Cantonese restaurant soothes my nostalgia for the family reunions and meals from decades ago. But since the restaurant doesn’t carry Inca Kola, I sneak in my favorite soda in a thermos. Each time I drink it, I remember another slogan: “The taste that unites us,” and how it must be true for all Peruvians.

The savory, cool, crisp, and creamy palta rellena—or stuffed avocado—that Mom taught me to make decades ago always reminds me of the beginning of spring.

Palta Rellena

Chickpea salad stuffed avocado.

Serves 6

Indigenous foodways brought the avocado from Mexico to South America centuries ago. In Peru, we call avocado “palta,” after a tribe in the northern part of the Inca empire that cultivated the fruit. I remember my mom making palta rellena with chicken or tuna salad for lunch, as an appetizer for dinner, or for a family potluck. Her small, creole kitchen was home to her seemingly effortless culinary magic that she practiced for more than 80 years. Holding a small, sharp pairing knife on one hand and a palta on the other, she would swiftly and elegantly slice the avocado in half, remove its pit, plate it, and scoop a filling of the chilled salad in the bright green cavity. Here, using mashed canned chickpeas for the stuffing makes the dish plant based and provides protein. Chopped parsley works as a substitute for the dill’s aromatics, and a squeeze of lime juice brightens the dish. This savory, cool, crisp, and creamy palta rellena that Mom taught me to make decades ago always reminds me of the beginning of spring.

• One 15-ounce can unsalted chickpeas

• 1/4 cup vegan mayonnaise

• 1/4 cup finely diced red onion

• 1/4 cup finely diced celery

• 2 tablespoons chopped dill, plus more for garnish

• 1/2 teaspoon salt, or more to taste

• 3 medium to large size ripe avocados, such as Hass

• 1 lime, sliced in half

Strain the chickpeas into a bowl. Use a fork to roughly mash the chickpeas. Add the mayonnaise, onion, celery, dill, and salt. Mix well to form the creamy filling. Adjust salt as needed. Refrigerate for 30 minutes, covered.

Slice avocados in half lengthwise, and remove their pits. Place avocados flesh side up and sprinkle with a dash of salt.

Fill each cavity with 1 tablespoon of the chilled chickpea mixture. Serve face up and garnish with dill. Squeeze a few drops of fresh lime juice over each avocado.

Peru’s Victoria Santa Cruz (1922-2014) was an Afro-descendant who spent her life promoting Black consciousness. Through her dancing, she manifested an ancestral memory of movement from West Africa and laid the foundation for much of today’s Afro-Peruvian choreography. But her words in songs and poems are also her legacy. Below is her poem, in the original Spanish, “Me Gritaron Negra.” And following that is my translation to English. “They Yelled At Me Black” is a powerful dialogue—in call and response phrases—that begins with shame and ends with true empowerment, as conveyed by the closing video’s spoken words.

“Me Gritaron Negra” — Victoria Santa Cruz, 1978

Tenía siete años apenas,
apenas siete años,
¡Qué siete años!
¡No llegaba a cinco siquiera!
De pronto unas voces en la calle
me gritaron ¡Negra!

¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!

¿Soy acaso negra?, me dije
¡Si!

¿Qué cosa es ser negra?
¡Negra!

Y yo no sabía la triste verdad que aquello escondía.
¡Negra!

Y me sentí negra,
¡Negra!

Como ellos decían
¡Negra!

Y retrocedí
¡Negra!

Como ellos querían
¡Negra!

Y odié mis cabellos y mis labios gruesos
y miré apenada mi carne tostada

Y retrocedí
¡Negra!

Y retrocedí…
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!

Y pasaba el tiempo,
y siempre amargada
Seguía llevando a mi espalda
mi pesada carga
¡Y cómo pesaba!

Me alacié el cabello,
me polveé la cara,
y entre mis entrañas siempre resonaba la misma palabra

¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!

Hasta que un día que retrocedía, retrocedía y qué iba a caer
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!

¿Y qué?
¿Y qué?

¡Negra!
Sí

¡Negra!
Soy

¡Negra!
Negra

¡Negra!
Negra soy

¡Negra!
Sí

¡Negra!
Soy

¡Negra!
Negra

¡Negra!
Negra soy

De hoy en adelante no quiero
laciar mi cabello
No quiero
Y voy a reírme de aquellos,
que por evitar–según ellos–
que por evitarnos algún sinsabor
Llaman a los negros gente de color
¡Y de qué color!

Negro
¡Y qué lindo suena!

Negro
¡Y qué ritmo tiene!

Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro

Al fin
Al fin comprendí
Al fin
Ya no retrocedo
Al fin

Y avanzo segura
Al fin

Avanzo y espero
Al fin

Y bendigo al cielo porque quiso Dios
que negro azabache fuera mi color

Y ya comprendí
Al fin

¡Ya tengo la llave!

Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro

¡Negra soy!

“They Yelled at Me Black” — Victoria Santa Cruz, 1978

I was hardly seven years old,
hardly seven years,
What seven years!
I wasn’t even five!
Suddenly some voice in the street
yelled at me, Black!

Black! Black! Black! Black! Black! Black Black!

Am I Black?, I asked myself
Yes!

What does it mean to be Black?
Black!

And I din’t know the sad hidden truth
Black!

And I felt black
Black!

Like they said
Black!

And I retreated
Black!

Like they wanted me to
Black!

And I hated my hair and thick lips
and I looked at my dark skin with sadness

And I retreated
Black!

And I retreated…
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black! Black!

And time passed,
and always angered
I kept carrying on my back
my heavy burden
It was so heavy!

I straightened my hair,
I powdered my face to whiten it,
and in my guts the same word always resounded

Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black!

Until one day I retreated, retreated and was about to fall
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black!

So what?
So what?

Black!
Yes

Black!
I am

Black!
Black

Black!
I am Black

Black!
Yes

Black!
I am

Black!
Black

Black!
I am Black

From today on I don’t want to
straighten my hair
I don’t want to
And I will laugh at those,
that to avoid—according to them—
that to avoid offending us
Call Black people, people of colour
And what colour!

Black
That sounds so nice!

Black
And what rhythm it has!

Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black

At last
At last I understood
At last
I no longer retreat
At last

And I advance sure of myself
At last

I advance and I wait
At last

And I bless the sky because God wanted
jet black to be my colour

And I understood
At last

I have the answer!

Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black Black
Black Black

I am Black!

I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing Enrique Hermoza, corporate head bartender at Museo del Pisco in Lima, for my Punch pisco cocktail stories. But for the first time, we chat about something more personal, a pisco cocktail he developed that celebrates Lima’s Chinese-Peruvian chifa culture like no other.

There are more than 6,000 chifas (Chinese-Peruvian restaurants) in Lima. For many limeños (residents of Peru’s capital), chifa is comfort food—a combination of Chinese and Peruvian food cultures that naturally evolved over the span of more than a century. Chifa is the food I grew up with; Mom cooked chifa dishes at home; and for family reunions and celebrations we always dined at a chifa.

Chifa culture is so strong that Peruvians call ingredients by their Cantonese names. Instead of the Spanish “gengibre” for ginger we say “kion,” and instead of “salsa de soya” for soy sauce, we say “sillao.” Many chifa menus list dishes in Cantonese too.

Recently, I came across a chifa-inspired cocktail at Museo del Pisco, a pisco-centric bar in Lima, Cusco, and Arequipa. So I reached out to Enrique Hermoza, and we had a chat about the inspiration behind this drink.

Nico: Hi Enrique, thank you for chatting with me about the chifa cocktail you created. But to begin, I’d like to hear about what chifa food and culture mean to you. Did you grow up eating chifa? Do you have a favorite chifa restaurant or dish? And do you cook any chifa dishes at home?

Enrique: My pleasure, Nico. To me, chifa is very meaningful as it was always one of my preferred cuisines. I grew up eating chifa food, and there was a chifa restaurant a block from my house. We’d go there two or three times a week.

I don’t have a favorite chifa restaurant; I feel that there are so many good chifas in Lima, so I can choose between eight or ten chifas near my home or work.

There’s this traditional chifa dish, Tipakay—the combination of sweet and sour sauce, crunchy chicken, and pineapple make it my favorite dish, without doubt. And at home I enjoy making arroz chaufa (Chinese-Peruvian fried rice).

Nico: So is the cocktail you created Pa’ti kay connected to Tipakay? What is the origin story of the cocktail?

Enrique: Indeed, this cocktail was born at a cafe when I was given the charge to create an offering that represents the taste of Lima. I thought of my favorite chifa dish, Tipakay, and from that point I created a liquid version with torontel (aromatic grape) pisco, tamarind, pineapple juice, and pear shrub.

The result is a sweet, acidic, and nostalgic combination that pays homage to Lima’s mestizaje—the multiethnic mix of people and cultures across centuries. The name of the drink, Pa’ti kay is a play on Tipakay, where pa’ti or “para ti” means “for you.”

Nico: I love that you mention nostalgia, chifa has always felt nostalgic because it’s the food we grew up with, that our parents grew up with, and that our grandparents ate. So it connects generations to a shared past. And it reminds us of home.

Now, all the ingredients you included in the cocktail are very chifa forward. But what about the pisco, why did you choose the torontel pisco for this drink?

Enrique: We chose the torontel pisco from Cholo Matías because of the bodega’s history and tradition, and because the torontel grape has pronounced notes of pineapple, jasmine, and pears. That way all the ingredients have a natural dialogue and integrate harmoniously.

Nico: There are so many pisco cocktails with quebranta (non-aromatic grape), so it’s always wonderful to see a pisco cocktail with an aromatic grape like torontel.

Yet, I am wondering what the drink tastes like. Can you describe the experience of drinking this cocktail?

Enrique: This is a cocktail with a marked intensity and complex pairing of ingredients. In the nose, one perceives aromatic notes of pineapple, flowers, pear, and tamarind. In the palate, the first sip is robust and dense. The pickled turnip activates the taste buds even more, creating an interesting umami sensation. While the fansi (fried glass noodle) accompaniment cleans the palate, allowing you to continue enjoying the drink.

Nico: In Lima’s creole culture, food and music always go together, right? So what Peruvian creole song would you select as the soundtrack for this drink?

Enrique: Definitely the vals criollo (creole waltz) “Alma, corazón y vida.” Alma (soul) represents the mestizaje between Peru and China; corazón (heart) symbolizes our pisco; and vida (life) because this cocktail invites us to cheer to the cultural richness of our country.

The song was composed in 1948 by the Peruvian musician Adrián Flores Albán, and made popular in the 1950s by the Peruvian trio Los Embajadores Criollos. The chorus says: “alma para conquistarte, corazón para quererte y vida para vivirla junto a ti"—”soul to conquer you, heart to love you, and life to live with you.”

Nico: Is there anything else you’d like to add about the cocktail or its place in Lima’s culture?

Enrique: Pa’ti kay is not just a cocktail, it’s a liquid interpretation of Lima’s mestizaje, where pisco has a dialogue which chifa cuisine. This is one of the cultural expressions that most represents the city. And at Museo del Pisco we believe that through cocktails we can tell stories.

Our mission is to reevaluate pisco through well conceptualized offerings that respect the product, the technique, and the complete experience, including the drinking vessel. That’s why we serve this cocktail in a Chinese bowl, as a nod to its origin and Lima’s collective memory.

We would like for Pa’ti kay to become a symbol of Lima in a cup. So when they ask us, “what does Lima taste like?”—the answer is clear: pisco, chifa, and mestizaje.

Nico: Enrique, it was a pleasure chatting with you. And thank you for sharing the recipe for the cocktail. Museo del Pisco is at the top of my list on my next trip to Lima.

Enrique: You are welcome Nico, we will be waiting for you with a drink or two.

I’ve interviewed Enrique for these Punch pisco cocktail stories:

• The Capitán Is Lima’s Old-Guard Aperitivo—For more than 150 years, the Manhattan-like pisco drink has been a Peruvian staple.

• The Pisco Punch Comes Home—Lima bartenders are making a late 19th-century cocktail from San Francisco their own.

Pa’ti kay — A chifa-inspired cocktail by Enrique Hermoza | Museo del Pisco

Serves: 1

INGREDIENTS

• 2 ounces torontel pisco

• 1 ounce pineapple juice

• 1 ounce pear shrub

• 20 grams tamarind pulp

Garnish: a slice of pickled turnip and black sesame seeds

Pairing: fried glass noodles.

DIRECTIONS

1. Add the pisco, pineapple juice, pear shrub, and tamarind pulp to a cocktail shaker with ice; then shake vigorously for 20 seconds.

2. Double strain over a large ice cube in a Chinese bowl or Old Fashioned glass.

3. Garnish with a slice of pickled turnip and black sesame seeds.

4. Accompany with fried glass noodles.

I’ve been running on mountain trails for more than 20 years. But in 2026, I am trying something new—I signed up for my first road marathon.

#SquadGoals

As a writer and chef, I’ve earned accolades for my stories and cooking—both solo and in collaborations. And in my youth, I played in a tennis team at my local club. But this is the first time a running team has invited me to join them. As the New Year gets underway, and I begin to ramp up my pre-season training, I am stoked that I’ll be running for the 2026 Precision Fuel & Hydration Team!

I’ve been using PF&H gels (carbohydrates) for the past couple of years, but only recently did I take a sweat test at a local PF&H lab. The result was a revelation—it showed I was a very salty sweater, which explains why I’d sometimes bonk at races.

Armed with this knowledge, and following a science-backed approach, I’ll be drinking more water and taking more sodium and electrolytes than I have in the past—both while training and racing.

I am thrilled to have found a company that makes a vegan product to fuel my plant-powered endeavors. It’s also pretty awesome to have the positive vibes of the PF&H community supporting my running goals for 2026.

2026 Race Calendar

For the past two decades, mountain trails called me: from the coastal singletracks in California, to Lake Tahoe’s sandy paths, to the ancient Inca Trail in Peru, to Leadville’s rocky summits, to Oregon’s speedy parks, to rooted climbs in British Columbia.

But in 2026, as a masters and plant-powered athlete who is approaching 60 years of age, I am trying something new—I signed up for my first road marathon.

My coach was very surprised when I said I wanted to run the California International Marathon (CIM) in December. But it wasn’t a surprise when I said I also wanted to run my 8th Leadville Trail Marathon in June—and go for a PB in Pb (Leadville).

Those two A-races anchor 2026, and after a few iterations my coach and I settled on a race calendar we were happy with:

• Apr: UTMB Canyons 25K, Auburn, CA

• May: Stumptown Half-Marathon, Portland, OR

• Jun: Whistler Half-Marathon, Whistler, BC

• Jun: Leadville Trail Marathon, Leadville, CO

• Aug: UTMB Whistler 25K, Whistler, BC

• Oct: Toronto Half-Marathon, Toronto, ON

• Dec: California International Marathon, Sacramento, CA

With five trail races, one road half-marathon, and my first road marathon, from trails to roads I am ready to find out where my body will take me.

I love making empanadas. From cooking the filling, to working the dough with my hands, to shaping the empanadas the process is a culinary meditation that connects me to family and our creole roots.

A Family Tradition

Mom told me that my abuelita used to make empanadas and sell them in the street outside her brother’s school in Lima’s working class neighborhood of Barrios Altos. That was in the 1940s, and the beginning of my family’s empanada making tradition that I am proud to continue today.

In 2022, less than one year before she passed away, my mom and I made empanadas for the family. That was the last time we cooked together. And I remember her beautiful hands—that have cooked Peru’s creole food for more than 80 years—carefully folding the empanada dough.

After seeing the expression of bliss on my son’s face—from tasting his first bite of empanada at an early age—I started teaching my daughter how to make empanadas. I love their curiosity and interest in helping me cook, and I think we have all inherited my mom’s cooking hands.

I like to bake empanadas for lunch or dinner, served with a side of greens and glass of red wine. If we don’t finish them in one sitting, I store them in a sealed container and refrigerate them for a couple of days. I really enjoy a reheated breakfast empanada with my cafe con leche.

Empanadas Sin Carne

Baked plant-based beef empanadas.

Serves 12

Empanadas are a portable South American classic of fried or baked hand pies with a savory or sweet filling. Thought to originate in northern Spain, colonial foodways brought the empanada to Peru, where creole cooks made it their own. Street-food vendors have been hawking empanadas in Lima for more than 150 years. And according to colonial-era chronicler Ricardo Palma, empanadas arrived at Noon, after the morning tamales and before the afternoon alfajores.

Making the dough from scratch is a rewarding effort because each time you knead, roll, and shape the dough you build a memory of the scent and texture of dough that is just right. The baked pastry acts as a vehicle for different fillings. Here, the classic filling of ground beef is replaced with an analog plant-protein. An onion sauté base with garlic, spices, broth, and bay leaf enhances the savory filling; while currants and olives add fruitiness.

FILLING

• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

• 2 crushed garlic cloves

• 1 cup diced red onion

• 1 pound plant-based ground beef (such as Beyond Meat, thawed if frozen)

• 1/4 teaspoon salt

• 1/4 teaspoon pepper

• 1/4 teaspoon cumin

• 1/4 teaspoon oregano

• 1/2 cup plant-based beef stock, or water

• 1/4 cup currants or raisins

• 1 bay leaf

• 12 pitted Kalamata olives

DOUGH

• 3 cups flour, plus more to dust the work surface

• 1 cup solid vegetable shortening (such as Spectrum Organics)

• 1/4 teaspoon salt

• 1 teaspoon white wine vinegar

• 1 cup cold water

GLAZE

• 1/4 cup oat milk

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

For the filling, in a large non-stick skillet over medium to high heat, warm the vegetable oil. Add the onion and garlic, stir and sauté until the onion becomes translucent. Mix in the plant-based ground beef, and use the edge of a spatula to break up large pieces. Season with salt, pepper, cumin, and oregano. Stir occasionally until the filling begins to brown. Add the stock, then mix in the currants and bay leaf. Simmer until the liquid reduces almost completely. Transfer the filling to a bowl, and compost the bay leaf. If making the dough later or the next day, refrigerate the filling in a sealed container.

For the dough, in a large bowl, combine the flour and shortening. Use a spatula to mix thoroughly, add the salt and vinegar, and continue to mix until the dough has a uniform consistency. Add about 3/4 cups water, 2 tablespoons at a time, while continuing to mix. Shape the dough in the bowl by hand to form a dome. If the dough doesn’t keep its shape, add a few more tablespoons of water. The dough should have some elasticity when pulled and not easily crumble or tear apart. Transfer the dough to a floured working surface, and knead the dough for 1 to 2 minutes. Roll the dough into a log and cut into 12 equal pieces. Roll out each piece of dough and cut into 6-inch diameter circles.

To assemble, place the dough circles on a flat, floured working surface. Scoop 2 tablespoons of filling onto the center of each circle and place an olive on top. Use a brush or your fingers to moisten the edges of the dough circles with water. Fold the dough circles in half. With your fingertips, press down firmly on the curved edges to seal the empanadas.

The repulgue along the curved, sealed edge gives the empanada its distinctive style.

To make the repulgue braid:

1. Place an empanada in front of you with the curved edge facing away from you and the straight edge facing towards you.

2. Using your left thumb and left index finger, pinch the left corner, where the curved edge meets the straight edge, and fold the pinched dough towards the center of the empanada.

3. Place your left index finger over the dough you just folded. Then, using your right thumb and right index finger, pinch a piece of dough on the curved edge to the right of your left index finger and pull and fold the pinched dough over your left index finger.

4. Remove your left index finger from under the folded dough. Then, place your left index finger to the right of the dough you just folded.

5. Repeat this pinching, pulling, and folding until you reach the rightmost corner of the empanada. Then, fold the right corner towards the center.

To bake, arrange the empanadas flat on a baking sheet lined with a silicone mat or parchment paper. Brush the top of the empanadas with oat milk, then perforate the top of each empanada with a fork three times, making three parallel dotted lines. Put the baking sheet in the oven and bake the empanadas until they turn golden brown and have a firm, puffy shape, about 40 minutes. Serve warm.