ForChenchachona.
That’s what she called the people she loved. So we named the place after the feeling of being one of them.
Mexico City, 2012.
A small storefront opens. Recipes that came down from a grandmother — the kind of cook who fed everyone who showed up, whether or not she had warning. The sign reads Chenchachona. That’s what she called you when she liked you. The neighbours figure it out fast. The line gets longer. The empanadas don’t change.
The crossing.
Years later, life moves to Canada. The recipes come too. So does the stubbornness — the kind that keeps you folding empanadas one at a time when machines exist. The same masa. The same long-cooked fillings. The same idea: hand someone something real and watch their week get a little better.
Kitchener-Waterloo, today.
We make them in small batches in our kitchen here, flash-freeze them the same day, and deliver them across the region. We did a run at St. Jacobs Market. We do private events. We supply a few cafés. We’re slowly, carefully, building a list.
Mostly though, we’re trying to do one thing well: bring a piece of a Mexican family kitchen into freezers across Ontario. So when a Tuesday hits hard, you have something better than what was in the cupboard.
Con cariño, from our family kitchen to yours.