Gabriela inherited more than recipes from her family—she inherited the belief that democracy happens best around dinner tables. Her star-covered dress was sewn from fabric she bought with her first paycheck from the family restaurant, where she learned that feeding people is another way of loving them. Every star reminds her of a regular customer whose order she knows by heart.

Three nights a week, she opens her home for what she calls "The Liberty Supper Club"—anyone can come, but they must bring either a dish or a story to share. Her dining room has hosted town councilors and teachers, farmers and shopkeepers, all passing platters and finding common ground over her grandmother's marinara. She keeps her great-aunt's handwritten cookbook on the counter, its pages stained with decades of use and annotated in three generations of handwriting.

Gabriela knows that freedom tastes different at every table—like her mother's cornbread, her father's paella, her neighbor's pierogi. But she also knows that when people break bread together, they're less likely to break faith with each other. In her kitchen, the melting pot isn't just a metaphor—it's the cast iron pot simmering on her stove, ready to welcome whatever ingredients life brings to her door.