I went for an early walk, as I do every time I need to gather my thoughts. The sun was barely filtering through the tall trees in the park, casting shafts of golden light that played with the shadows. The air had that fresh, earthy scent that autumn brings, and the soft crunch of the leaves beneath my steps marked the rhythm of the morning.

I'd never been a big fan of offal, but that night I was craving something different, something that would make me feel closer to my roots. I'd bought chitterlings and kidneys at the local butcher shop, unsure how I was going to prepare them. It wasn't a common cut in my kitchen, but it was in my memory: my grandfather cooked them like no one else, with a little lemon and patience.

It was a cold night, one of those when even the bravest adventurer seeks shelter. In a small house, two brave furry companions were about to embark on an important mission.Cinnamon, a curly-haired, restless dog, was wearing her red vest with black paw prints: her official domestic exploration uniform. Determinedly pacing the sofa, she sniffed every nook and cranny between the cushions. Something valuable had gone missing: her favorite toy, the squeaky little bone. She was convinced it had been sucked into the mysterious depths of the couch.

Today I woke up with a different energy. The sky was clear, the cold air caressed my face as I walked through the streets of downtown Buenos Aires. The typical morning bustle enveloped me, but something stronger captured my attention.

Early on, the ritual began: lit wood, well-cooked embers, and that unmistakable aroma that only a good Rivadavia lamb can offer. With patience and dedication, we cooked it over low heat, turning it slowly, letting each part brown just as it should: crispy on the outside, tender on the inside.

Every May 25th, when the sky begins to turn that cold, autumnal gray, I can't help but remember my childhood. For me, Día de la Patria wasn't just a date on the calendar: it was the smell of fried dough, powdered sugar, and hot chocolate.