One of the strongest memories of my childhood years is my mom standing next to the table in our small, narrow kitchen. At the end of the table is a cast iron meat grinder, edging slightly passed the side of the table. Beneath the opening of the grinder is a deep bowl. Next to the grinder there were plates with onions cut into quarters, garlic cloves, parsley, cilantro, slices of bread that were soaked in water and squeezed, and of course, meat. Except on Fridays, on Fridays, pieces of fillet of fish replaced the meat. As if in a ceremony,