A package arrived one afternoon at our home in East Los Angeles, sent by my mother from her village. I recognized it instantly—the careful wrapping, the worn edges, and the earthy smell of fresh food straight from the farm. Inside were simple things: wild greens with bits of soil still clinging to them, eggs wrapped in newspaper, homemade salsa, and dried fish. To me, it was more than food—it was love and effort sent from far away. But my wife, Emily, saw it differently. She dismissed it as unnecessary and unclean, insisting we didn’t need such things when we had stores nearby.
