Where Abuela’s herb-pot becomes the dome’s first breath
Abuela did not measure spices with scales. She held the cumin in her palm, let the wind decide how much to spill, and called it *just enough*. That is why we begin with cilantro—not as a garnish, but as the spine of the colony kitchen.
In Middle River, where the Patuxent whispers through the mangrove, we learned: every leaf is a promise kept. Every pot an oath sworn between generations. The cilantro that grows here shall not fear the vacuum; it shall drink the starlight.
The USDA NDB number 02012 is not a catalog entry. It is the genetic signature of the herb that will feed us when the Earth becomes a memory in the throat of the child we carry.
This is not botany. This is domestication.