DIRTY KITCHEN is a memoir of Jill Damatac as she lived as an undocumented immigrant with her family for twenty two years in the US.

This book is utterly vulnerable - Damatac details with unfiltered thoughts her hardships as an undocumented child while dealing with her inner trauma and sense of belonging. From her family living through the regime back in Philippines to domestic abuse, one witnesses the way internalized colonial oppression dictates her parents' mentality, escalating to the instinct of survival and intergenerational punishment.

The pages are infused with Filipino folklore and I mostly appreciated the deeper understanding about Filipino history/culture. Through food culture, the act of cooking is an attempt to find a sense of self with the cultural roots and this process incorporates a more ethereal touch, making a relationship between body and spirit.

While the cooking instructions randomly described between the passages might be a creative move, I personally found it distracting. Damatac delves into mental illness and poverty, which her experiences and emotions are amplified by an evocative prose (consider checking the content warnings / I couldn't bear most of her parents' behavior). Ultimately, this is a journey of healing and reconciliation, of reconciling with those who hurt you, of reconciling with a country that failed you.

DIRTY KITCHEN gives voice to Filipino undocumented immigrants - it is a raw memoir loaded with Filipino recipes and cultural heritage. This food memoir pairs well with BITE BY BITE by Aimee Nezhukumatathil and SLOW NOODLES: a Cambodian memoir by Chantha Nguon.

This book really grew on me! I thought her story was incredibly compelling, and really loved how she integrated both food and history into her personal experiences. Would recommend for people who liked Educated or How to Say Babylon!

Halo Halo.
It’s the quintessential Filipino dessert.

It’s also an apt metaphor for this equal parts memoir, history, and cookbook.

A little bit of everything all mixed up together, Unlike the dessert, there were quite a few sour parts (financial exploitation, domestic abuse) that were sad to read. But it’s the authors’ truth.

Hearing the real impact of Marcos’ regime and the US immigration policies left a lasting impression. There were few to any light moments so felt this was heavier than advertised and depressing.

I think the use of Filipino dishes as chapter titles was clever. But random placement of cooking instructions in the middle of chapters was often distracting.So, too, was the snippets of mythology.



This ARC was provided by the publisher, Atria Books | Atria/One Signal Publishers via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

I don't love being the first review because I don't think what I have to say will suffice.

I am a 2nd generation American, my mom came to America in her early 20s (or 18/19 idk, sorry Mom!). Within the words of this memoir, I hear the very sentiments my mom has expressed; the idea of trying to love a country that just refuses to love you back. Reading this made me emotional and angry...especially with how things are in America currently (writing this in Jan. 2025) and I'll leave that at that.

Also, I LOVED the format with the recipes and instructions sprinkled throughout; I have the fondest memories of eating those very dishes growing up...I no longer eat meat but you bet I've tried to make the best vegetarian adobo (definitely not the same, but the salty, peppery, vinegar-y flavors are spot on).

I don't feel like I have the words but this was raw, powerful, incredible.

Beautiful prose. The structure with the recipes forming the scaffolding of each chapter was a bit clunky. Some of the characters came across as flat or cliche. Still, a valuable read.

This book is a deeply moving exploration of identity, resilience, and the complex ways food connects us to our roots. Jill Damatac’s storytelling is rich with emotional depth and cultural insight, blending her personal journey with the broader history of colonialism and immigration. Her experiences as an undocumented immigrant in the U.S. are heartbreakingly raw, but her rediscovery of her Filipino heritage is profoundly inspiring.

What stands out most is how food becomes both a grounding force and a means of self-discovery—each recipe feels like an act of reclaiming what was lost. The mix of memoir and cultural history is beautifully balanced, making it both deeply personal and universally relatable. It's a poignant reminder of how cooking can be more than just nourishment—it can be a way to heal, honor, and rebuild. This book lingers with you, offering not just a glimpse into one woman's extraordinary journey but a chance to reflect on the stories that shape us all.