My Mother’s Kitchen gives immigrants to Denver a taste of home
Story and Photos by Giles Clasen
Arthur Infante sets up a portable kitchen for new immigrants. Credit: Giles Clasen
Helping others is second nature to Arthur Infante. He can’t imagine sitting by and doing nothing while others struggle. For years, he would take his children out to help people experiencing homelessness.
“I never saw it as a handout,” he says. “We would ask people what they needed, give what we had, and ask for a story in return. It was a fair exchange. The individuals may receive clothes or food, or whatever, and me and my kids would get a story.” He saw that this trade empowered people who had little to give but a lot to offer.
When the most recent wave of immigrants began to arrive in Denver, Infante wanted to help – to create something that served the community. Firstly, he volunteered to bring meals to individuals and families living in hotels. The meal trains were important to help people get by. But he also heard people asking for means of self-reliance.
“Do you know what these people have been through to get here? They didn’t risk their lives for handouts. They want to work and build a life here. I don’t have a lot of people asking for money. I have people asking me, ‘Do you have a job?’” he says.
He decided that the best thing he could do to help Denver’s new guests would be to give them a way to feed themselves. He began volunteering at an encampment under an overpass near N. Pecos Street and I-70. There, he saw that the new immigrants, most of whom are in the US legally and seeking asylum, wanted to take care of themselves. It occurred to him that one of the best things that he could do would be to build a portable tent kitchen so that they could cook for themselves.
An artist by training, Infante earns a living restoring antiques and recently resurrected a crumbling sculpture of the goddess Nike. He also has revived many stained-glass windows and other pieces that had withered with age. There isn’t a medium that he hasn’t dabbled in.
To build a stove, Infante turned to scrap metal left over after building his son a go-cart. He cut three holes into it, attached propane burners, bought some cheap pans and a canopy, and delivered his creation to the camp. It was an immediate hit.
The new immigrants, who are mostly from Venezuela, Columbia, and Peru, have their own culinary histories. Food is a reminder of the homes that they love but were forced to leave. Some volunteers brought them Mexican food, but many Venezuelans found it too spicy. Through Infante’s kitchen, they could prepare their own food – something that tasted like home.
The kitchen was being used, but it wasn’t receiving the loving care that Infante felt it deserved. He found it unclean at times, and that frustrated him. He needed to take one more step to get it just right. In an attempt to hold its users accountable for its upkeep, he put a picture of his mother on the preparation table.
“I called it ‘My Mother’s Kitchen’ and told them she was watching over them,” Infante says. “When I [displayed] a picture, that meant so much – I saw some people make the sign of the cross ... and [hold] the picture and reverence for the space. You know, the idea of a place to get together and talk and eat. My mom would be happy with that and think it was beautiful.”
Some of the families who use the kitchen live in camps. Others walk miles to use the kitchen and make food before returning to the hotels rented by the City of Denver as temporary housing.
Infante moved the kitchen five times when the police or park rangers forced a camp to relocate. He understands that the draw it holds pertains to more than just food. My Mother’s Kitchen is also a space for community.
“Growing up, everyone gravitated to our kitchen. Friends, family, and anyone who came to our house would often leave the living room empty and crowd into the kitchen,” he says. “My mom made it a place to eat and drink and feel safe with others.”