Walk into any cell block in San Quentin State Prison, and you might smell chicken frying, mackerel croquettes sizzling, adobo chile powder, a hint of fish sauce. One whiff and it would seem the corrections and rehabilitation facility just north of San Francisco is full of amateur chefs.

Determined to eat something other than the bland food they’re served daily, incarcerated residents in prisons everywhere have found ways to cook for themselves using some makeshift cooking equipment and ingredients from the mess halls and commissary. The residents at San Quentin are no different, making apple pie crusts out of cake, tamales using crushed tortilla chips, and pasta with tomato-less marinara, all with little more than a plastic spoon and a hotpot (essentially a hot-water kettle, and the only piece of cooking equipment allowed in San Quentin).

Since spring of 2018, a group of these cooks have been showcasing their inventive techniques and telling the stories behind their favorite dishes on the San Quentin Cooking Show. The project, organized by the first prison chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists, is part of a video journalism program with a rotating class of roughly 20 students. The show, which started as a simple way to teach the basics of video storytelling, has evolved over the years into a therapeutic space for incarcerated residents to open up about their backgrounds and reconnect with their own cultures while incarcerated.

The show isn’t yet available to watch outside the prison (though the ultimate goal is a YouTube channel), but four of the students I teach were willing to share an inside look at their dishes and the stories behind them. Here, they tell us about the recipes that remind them of life outside the prison walls.

Juan Meza Photo by Damien Maloney

Juan Meza

Being locked up, I miss a lot of celebrations con mi familia. The one I miss the most is making tamales on Christmas, a tradition shared by a lot of Chicanos like me. For many of us, it’s the same scene. Familia gathers at a tia’s house. The aroma of spicy shredded beef and pork wafts through the air. The sound of women’s laughter and squealing children fills the kitchen as masa is spread across corn husks, a dollop of meat in the center, the little package rolled, sealed, and steamed. No men are allowed inside the house while the tamales are made. They’re outside or in the garage keeping watch over two pots the size of small children filled with boiling water to steam the tamales. They play darts or horse shoe, cook, taste test, and drink cerveza.