Paletas, Café de Olla, and the Art of Connection
By Lynn Mendoza-Khan
This morning in Woodburn began the way all magical days should: with the scent of café de olla drifting thro
ugh the air and the promise of paletas under the summer sun. I wandered through the heart of the Latino district, where storefronts brim with bright handmade crafts, and the rich aromas of sizzling tortillas and fresh pan dulce. Every corner felt like a whisper from Mexico—alive with music, memory, and the warmth of home.
Over a large cup of cinnamon-spiced café, I met an educator with a voice like golden syrup, deep and glistening with tenor beauty. What was meant to be a brief hello turned into hours of inspiration. We spoke like old friends, harmonizing dreams and melodies, weaving our visions together like the threads of a well-loved rebozo. He in Zacatecas, I in Guanajuato and Guadalajara—two souls with parallel callings: to foster a cultural and musical exchange that bridges borders and celebrates the brilliance of our people.
This, to me, is one of the great gifts of having an organization like the Latinx Choral Project. It creates a space for these connections to flourish—where strangers become collaborators, and collaborators become friends. It reminds us to invest in community over individualism, to let our relationships bleed outward and nourish the wider world. Bonds like these strengthen the fabric of our care, expanding our circle of belonging through music and shared vision.
Later, I found myself at Portland’s Milagro Theater for a community event that felt like a celebration and reflection wrapped into one. The concept? Pure genius: answer a question, receive a paleta. raspberry-lime, blueberry-lemonade, mango con crema—the flavors were as bold as the voices that filled the space. In exchange for our sweet treats, we shared pieces of ourselves: how we express our identities, how we celebrate our culture, and how connected we feel to our roots.
Each person drew a picture of cultural connection. Mine? Enmoladas with four distinct moles of every hue—deep, earthy negro mole, bright pink tart Jamaica mole, earthy caramelized plátano mole, fiery red mole. Food as identity. Food as memory. Around me, others drew tamales, chile en nogada, pozole, tacos al pastor. We spoke of our familia, our hometowns, our favorite spices. Each story was a song. Each dish a verse.
As the sun dipped low and cast the street in honeyed light, I felt full—not just from the food or café or paletas—but from the conversations, the stories, the laughter, and the dreams shared. Today wasn’t just about meetings or meals. It was about resilience. About recharging through connection.
There’s a kind of healing that happens when we gather around shared memory. When we let culture be the thread that ties us together. Music, food, conversation—they are sacred acts of preservation, of joy, of becoming.
May we keep singing.
May we keep sharing.
May our dreams be as vibrant and layered as mole,
and just as nourishing.
