A mother has free range to get desperate.  You moms out there know what I am talking about.  Non-moms, maybe not so much.  It goes pretty much like this, or at least, it did for me:

Non-mom declaration:

When I have kids they will never drink Coke.

Mom reality:

Only two cans dear. You have to eat some dinner.

Non-mom declaration:

My children, MY children of all children, will never step foot in a McDonalds!

(I can hear my sister-in-law’s laughter all the way from Omaha on this one…)

Mom declaration:

Gimme a Mighty Meal, double bacon cheeseburger, extra fries, Coke, and maybe another cheeseburger.

(Note: I still don’t touch the stuff, but they sure do!  Okay, I can’t say no to one or two or three french fries. Damn those french fries are good!)

So you get it. Maybe I was a bit idealistic.  Maybe I wanted to be like ...Read on]]>

A mother has free range to get desperate.  You moms out there know what I am talking about.  Non-moms, maybe not so much.  It goes pretty much like this, or at least, it did for me:

Non-mom declaration:

When I have kids they will never drink Coke.

Mom reality:

Only two cans dear. You have to eat some dinner.

Non-mom declaration:

My children, MY children of all children, will never step foot in a McDonalds!

(I can hear my sister-in-law’s laughter all the way from Omaha on this one…)

Mom declaration:

Gimme a Mighty Meal, double bacon cheeseburger, extra fries, Coke, and maybe another cheeseburger.

(Note: I still don’t touch the stuff, but they sure do!  Okay, I can’t say no to one or two or three french fries. Damn those french fries are good!)

So you get it. Maybe I was a bit idealistic.  Maybe I wanted to be like Dianne Keaton in that baby movie and live in a big barnhouse in Vermont and make my own baby food from scratch (the million-dollar business and cute veterinarian being a nice bonus.)  But life gets in the way and, I dare say, even I, a professed food snob, gets desperate from time to time with a bit of greasy, preservative help.

Take the whole vegetetable conondrum for instance.  My daughter won’t go near them.  Not with a ten foot pole.  Not with a ten foot pole loaded with M&M’s on the end.  Nothing.  No can do.  And I have tried. I did charts, rewards, sneaky stuff like those famous spinach brownies (’They taste weird mom, can’t you just make your normal ones?‘)

I resorted to cute and crazy.  Mixing it up a bit.  Living outside the box.  Dani is a box girl.  There are rules and WE FOLLOW THEM.  And so, if I break one it’s a big deal.  And the girl keeps track, I tell you.  I can’t slip up one bit because she’s there to call me on it: It’s Tuesday mom, you usually have the laundry folded by now. Why isn’t it on the table?  Monday is your bill day, why are there so many envelopes unopened in the front desk?  Don’t forget mom, it’s Friday, ice cream day.  We go every Friday.  I’m telling you she is relentless about the order of life and trip-ups are unacceptable.

Except when they work in your favor.  Like serving up potato chips for dinner.  Potato chips no less!  Oh the rebellion!  Dani wigged on that one.  So much so that she didn’t realize the vegetables lying underneath.  And thus, gobbled the whole thing up and even asked for more.  This is a small victory for me and all mothers out there (we are all smiling and nodding our heads now.)  So, you may think it irrelevant, cheesy, or too Rachael Ray, but it works.  I got the idea for this recipe from epicurious.com. Take some eggs, throw veggies into them, shred cheese, dump it all in muffin tins so they bake individually and look too precious, and sprinkle crushed potato chips on top and you’ve got yourself a potato chip frittata that will make the most stubborn anti-veggie kid smile and ask for more.

Mom declaration:

Mine did!

If I had another child it would be made out of coconut. Because coconut is smooth, and creamy and simply delicious. It wouldn’t talk back or whine or demand to be fed. It wouldn’t wear diapers, strain mortgages, or keep me up at night with worry.

It would be tall and ethereal and covered in meringue fluff. The inside would be a rich, decadent buttercream frosting, and I would play with it, play play play with it on its own clean cake stand. I’d twirl and whirl and smooth and shape, and it would glisten and mold just for me.

My family would deem me nuts. First she names her raw poultry, then her appliances, and now this? It may be too much for them, and they are a forgiving bunch. But they’d see the happiness ...Read on]]>

If I had another child it would be made out of coconut. Because coconut is smooth, and creamy and simply delicious. It wouldn’t talk back or whine or demand to be fed. It wouldn’t wear diapers, strain mortgages, or keep me up at night with worry.

It would be tall and ethereal and covered in meringue fluff. The inside would be a rich, decadent buttercream frosting, and I would play with it, play play play with it on its own clean cake stand. I’d twirl and whirl and smooth and shape, and it would glisten and mold just for me.

My family would deem me nuts. First she names her raw poultry, then her appliances, and now this? It may be too much for them, and they are a forgiving bunch. But they’d see the happiness in my eyes, and my children, wise beyond their years albeit at the tender ages of ten and seven, would know that mom wasn’t replacing them with a coconut cake, she was just loving them more because of it. (The fact that she’d forgotten they passed their TV limit a half an hour ago was merely a bonus.)

But they love their mom, even when she sings (although they claim to hate her singing they really do love it) and there she would be, cake scraper in hand, a bowl full of sweet fluffiness beside her, and her newborn baby cake growing and spinning and she’d be singing, not your ordinary lullaby (because such a child would demand different, something more potent and self-assured as this coconut cake would be, something only Ella Fitzgerald could pull off, a Cole Porter special of course, she’d sing:

“You do, (spin) something to me (spin, spin), something that simply mystifies me (more meringue topping).”

Eventually husband would come back from one of his many business trips (oh don’t ask me, I’ve lost track of what country he is in now.) But the important thing is he would return and he’d greet his two children with all the love and affection that he holds for them in his heart and builds with longing when he is away from them. And mid way through that lovefest something would tug at him ever so gently, something in the pit of his stomach would whisper he look up, and he would, tenderly turn his eyes above his children’s frame (not in a neglectful manner as he’d still have them clasped in his embrace) and there he’d meet her third child, now a big and proudly deliciously shaped coconut cream cake. His eyes would widen, fighting all sleep his body ached for and his mouth would instantly shape itself into a tiny ‘o’ as the slightest greeting would escape his mouth and he’d croon, “ooooooh.”

And now he’d get up from his children, because he loves them dearly and they know that but sometimes being tactful is a challenge for him and he’d hugged them and he will play with them later, he knew he would, but right now this coconut cake demanded his attention because he knew it was his wife’s work of love and in it he’d find pleasures not found elsewhere. And so, without a second thought a sharp knife would quickly join his hand and already be digging its way through the coconut cake’s soft flesh.

He’d carve out the first piece and it would give way to his plate showing a pale and light complexion filled with coconut butter cream and framed in fluffy meringue topping. He’d bite and close his eyes, because one could not eat this with external distractions and he’d be absorbed in the impossible contrast of richness and buttery lightness all at once, and there was the coconut flavor, subtle but strong, and the foamy lightheartedness of the meringue topping with a tinge of something familiar, what was it, vanilla? And most importantly it was his wife, his wife and her passion for this cake, a cake she’d deem her third child, that embraced him strongest and filled him with warmth and love and soul. For he traveled everywhere and led a rootless life, but when he bit into that her creation he held on to her tightly, loving her completely without her even being in the room. Eyes still closed and mouth savoring, he knew he was home.

She promised us she doesn’t normally cook this way, but believe me, a tall, attractive woman in a tight black dress, stiletto heels and a chef’s jacket is quite a turn on, even if you’re heterosexual.  This is how the culinary goddess Daisy Martinez, from The Food Network’s Daisy Cooks! arrived to cook on stage last Friday night at Miami’s Adrienne Arscht Center.  She was joined by the well-loved and charismatic local Miami celebrity Food Network star of Simply Delicioso, Ingrid Hoffman (whose warmth and approachable nature reminded me of a Latin Rachael Ray)  Together they kicked off the center’s Celebrity Chef Series (which includes other greats, Jacques Pepin, Emeril Lagasse and Anthony Bourdain) beginning with a spice of Latin fun.

And what fun it was!  Part interview, part storytelling, part cooking demo (with a house filled with ...Read on]]>

She promised us she doesn’t normally cook this way, but believe me, a tall, attractive woman in a tight black dress, stiletto heels and a chef’s jacket is quite a turn on, even if you’re heterosexual.  This is how the culinary goddess Daisy Martinez, from The Food Network’s Daisy Cooks! arrived to cook on stage last Friday night at Miami’s Adrienne Arscht Center.  She was joined by the well-loved and charismatic local Miami celebrity Food Network star of Simply Delicioso, Ingrid Hoffman (whose warmth and approachable nature reminded me of a Latin Rachael Ray)  Together they kicked off the center’s Celebrity Chef Series (which includes other greats, Jacques Pepin, Emeril Lagasse and Anthony Bourdain) beginning with a spice of Latin fun.

And what fun it was!  Part interview, part storytelling, part cooking demo (with a house filled with salivating audience members), Daisy and Ingrid (because after hearing about Ingrid’s struggles with Lupus and Daisy’s affection for martinis we fast forwarded to a first-name basis) talked about their own multi-cultural families and journeys from humble Latin roots to successful Food Network mega stars.  There was much reminiscing about abuelitas (grandmothers) and the influential role they had on each one of these women.  This was something I could relate to because even though I didn’t have an abuelita, I had my Colombian nanny, Yolanda, whose jokes, wise cracks, and culinary secrets (such as the tastiest cabbage salad from Tia Beatriz) shaped me as much as their abuelas had shaped them.

The atmosphere at the Arscht Center was so casual, Daisy nearly stepped off the stage to reprimand those who admitted not knowing what annatto oil was.  Silent gasps amongst Latin peers were heard as she took pause and carefully explained this secret of Latin cooking:  annatto seeds are seeped in oil and used as a coloring and flavoring technique for many Latin dishes, such as the shrimp she was preparing that night.

Ingrid cooked for us first, embracing her mantra of healthy, wholesome eating, using a stalk of cilantro (a favorite ingredient of hers) as her floral arrangement and showing her fast and simple style with the preparation of shrimp in a poblano chile and tomatillo salsa, coconut rice, and a heart of palm salad.  Reflecting the same multi-cultural pride that compromises Miami, she explained this to be a diversely Latin dish drawing ingredients from Mexico, Colombia and Argentina.  She finished dazzling the audience with a mouthwatering guava martini made with jalapeño-infused vodka.  Pardon the cliché but, caliente! And she did this all in ten minutes.

Daisy cooked shrimp as well but took a more traditional route with a classic sofrito rendition adding a surprise twist by serving this savory piquant dish on top of a Venezuelan sweet corn cachapa, or cornmeal pancake, traditionally eaten with fresh white cheese.  As the cachapa sizzled Daisy promised us it would be crunchy on the outside but tender on the inside serving as the perfect companion to her shrimp.  There’s something about Daisy that makes you just believe.

There were a couple of hiccups for her along the way:  having to maneuver an electric stovetop (“I do gas, what can I say!” she confessed) and being given a spatula the size of a toddler’s cooking set instead of the real deal to flip her cachapas.  But, these obstacles only served to enhance her funk and funny style as she brazenly plowed through them giving the audience plenty of laughs (her assistants became Cooking Ninja #1 and Cooking Ninja #2 and enjoyed basking in her fun limelight) along the way and equally important, producing a delicious smelling dish at the end.  Again, as a mere audience member, I was not privy to tasting, but, being on row #7 smack in the middle, I sure as hell did get the aroma and it was intoxicatingly rich and sweet and spicy all at once.

Later on, during a Q&A session, two little girls donning chef hats and mucho moxie approached the microphone to admit they didn’t have a question but could they get a hug instead?  Both Daisy and Ingrid gladly complied, leaving more than a few audience members jealous no doubt.

Lorena Garcia, a Venezuelan native chef and host of Univision’s Despierta America Cocinando Con Nestle, was the moderator of this jovial event and the only lucky soul able to sample the exquisite food prepared by these two talented ladies.  Lorena would instinctively pop up on the stage as both Ingrid and Daisy were barely done stirring their final stir and eagerly give us all a hands-on preview of the food being prepared.  Her enthusiasm wolfing down the food (piping hot and knifeless) served to attest what my sense of smell said: excelente!

This was not only an evening filled with good laughs, pleasurable conversation, and enticing aromas.  It was what makes Miami my home and why:  the conversion of cultures, languages and backgrounds that mold so easily that an entire audience is able to slip in and out of Spanish and English and not even notice they’ve done so.  I suppose growing up the way I did, food obsessed and raised in Venezuela by an American mother and Israeli father, all the while meticulously nurtured by my Colombian nanny, gave me the flavors of many worlds.  These are flavors that have formed me, nourished me, and propelled me through my life.  Seeing these women sharing similar patchworks of tastes to a house filled with an eager and anticipating audience made me feel a part of a bigger and more flavorful culinary whole.

I have a confession to make. I’m not sure it’s the right one to do, this being an upscale [insert giggle] food blog with upscale food followers (right?) but nonetheless, if anything, I strive to be true to myself and my readers and so here it goes: I go to Costco to shop.

Sometimes. Rarely. But sometimes. On occasions maybe more than I should. But I go. Now, to my defense let me remind you all that I live in South Florida: Plantation to be exact, which is not necessarily your haven of food markets and such. Lightly put, this ain’t Santa Monica or Paris, both hosting amazing food markets. When I went to the Symposium for Professional Food Writers at the Greenbrier last April, I met Amelia Saltsman, author of The Santa Monica Farmer’s Market Cookbook ...Read on]]>

I have a confession to make. I’m not sure it’s the right one to do, this being an upscale [insert giggle] food blog with upscale food followers (right?) but nonetheless, if anything, I strive to be true to myself and my readers and so here it goes: I go to Costco to shop.

Sometimes. Rarely. But sometimes. On occasions maybe more than I should. But I go. Now, to my defense let me remind you all that I live in South Florida: Plantation to be exact, which is not necessarily your haven of food markets and such. Lightly put, this ain’t Santa Monica or Paris, both hosting amazing food markets. When I went to the Symposium for Professional Food Writers at the Greenbrier last April, I met Amelia Saltsman, author of The Santa Monica Farmer’s Market Cookbook and I was ready to hop in her suitcase and head home with her.  Unfortunately, the closest thing to a food market for me would be Florida City (a 1 1/2 hour trek), and, most definitely on my way down to the Keys I’d make a wonderfully delicious stop there, but, on a day-to-day basis, driving such a distance for my produce  wouldn’t make much ecological sense anyway, considering I am hauling around in a minivan (at least it’s not a huge truck or something).  But with words such as organic, sustainable, and slow foods bubbling up to the awareness of the American eater, my  Costco confession is not a good thing.

Some culinary folks would be okay with it, even helpful.  Rachael Ray has tips on how to make shopping in warehouse stores less daunting. Other’s, like Oprah, try and encourage us to shop at our local greenmarket. But seriously, there is something about the size of the place that mesmerizes me (there I going being politically incorrect again). Now, I didn’t grow up in this country. As most of you know, I grew up in Venezuela, where, if you wanted bread, you went to the panaderia (bread shop), meat: carniceria (yep, butcher) and fruit, you’d head on to the fruteria (you got this one). Now all of these where situated in the cozy neighborhood of Chacao, a bustling maze of streets in Caracas filled with pedestrians, businesses and cars. It was a five minute walk from my house, and I would usually make the trip with my nanny, Yoli, and our steady rolling iron basket with dune buggy wheels imported from Spain. It was an afternoon of schmoozing with the neighbors, tasting samples of papaya, and picking up some unplanned sweet rolls merely because the had just left the oven and their aroma demanded purchasing.

So flash forward to Plantation, Florida and take pity on me please. It’s a lovely place.  Serene and green.  But nobody walks here. Nobody. In fact, I do believe South Florida, specifically Ft. Lauderdale (which is ten minutes from me) ranked as one of the most dangerous cities for pedestrians. It’s car zone here, whether you like it or not. First of all, it’s just so damn hot most of the time (I mean, we are in mid October and its 96 degrees outside). People like to be sealed in their cars, a/c blasting, music blaring, shut out from the world, entering and exiting their hermetically sealed universe via garage.  So, step out of your suburban home and it would be no surprise to find no one but maybe an occasional aggravated dog walker obligated to be outdoors.

That being said, you can imagine the food situation isn’t optimal. Supermarkets abound, and I visit them regularly, so much so that everyone knows me there quite well. And then there is gleamingly large Costco. Now I am not a fan a warehouses in general, but when they are filled with food, I can’t help myself. And even as I walk in and am greeted by mountains of empty boxes (which shoppers use to pile on their bought goods (hey, at least no plastic bags, that’s good, right?)) I feel a pang of guilt reading what these empty boxes once stored: grapes from Brazil, avocados from Mexico, asparagus from Peru. Once viewed proudly as the United Nations of food, this stuff is deemed bad, bad, bad in the age of locavore, and I should know and do better as a food muse. I should. Except that some of the stuff is lovely. Big and plump and beautifully lovely and it’s not just the lighting of the place, I promise, it’s the actual stuff.

I am a good person, I am. And if I lived somewhere where I could get a plethora of local grown foods, I’d be the first in line (on my bicycle). But I am geographically challenged you see, and so I slip in here on occasion and go mad buying. Of course, why one person needs a box of 25 croissants is beyond me, but I grab it anyhow. This isn’t easy for me you know, and I’m not just talking about pushing the jumbo sized shopping cart and maneuvering through the waves of regulars. The whole experience is filled with conflict as I recall my shopping days in Venezuela and compare them to what I’ve ended up doing now. It’s a sense of failure of sorts, a resigned  ”this is what happens when you end up in the suburbs” pity bit, until I see the nice granny in the corner giving out samples of lobster spread and I jump with a big “ooh” and rush over to grab five crackers. She gives me a dirty look (proper etiquette assumes you are only supposed to take one) but I figure it’s all about excessiveness here, so why the hell not.

I find myself honing in on the tomatoes. I’ve spotted them from a distance and they look lovely- round and plump and just perfect. It’s still October, so, maybe I can convince myself it is a late, late summer crop and thus I can get away with eating them with a clear consience. I know this not to be true but I love tomatoes so. I check the label to see where they’ve come from: Canada. Close enough, right? We’re like brothers, no? I make a mental note to move to California with Amelia and grab the package. As I maneuver around the cheeses I can’t resist the gigantic tub of mozzarella, imported straight from Italy. Ah, Italian mozarrrella. Me piace! How can one say no? I’ve already got the perfect meal in mind: insalata caprese. I’ll use my Portuguese olive oil, some of Mark Bitterman’s fabulous Kauai Guava Smoked Salt from his lovely store, The Meadow and then I’ll top it off with my own home grown basil, born in the USA. Yes, it would be a United Nation’s meal at my house (with our own representative present), and somehow the guilt began to ease as I viewed it more of a celebration of flavors meeting from all corners of the world, ending up in my home for one big, happy and tasty ending.

When one spends three hours late Sunday night in a pediatric ER because one’s child develops eyes similar to Rocky Balboa’s at Round Eight (did he ever make it to round 8?) you know you’re in for your parental run of the money. Large, pendulous red mountains rose around bloodshot eyes which slowly disappeared under the swelling, demanding a detour from a peaceful family evening at home to one filled with fluorescent lighting, numerous nurses and lots of hospital forms.

The ER adventure lasted three hours, ending with a diagnosis of an extreme reaction to conjunctivitis (because normal reaction was too boring, I assume), and the added bonus of an ear infection as well (“Oh yeah, mom, I can’t hear out of that ear”, would have been a handy thing to know earlier on). And then, the remaining ...Read on]]>

When one spends three hours late Sunday night in a pediatric ER because one’s child develops eyes similar to Rocky Balboa’s at Round Eight (did he ever make it to round 8?) you know you’re in for your parental run of the money. Large, pendulous red mountains rose around bloodshot eyes which slowly disappeared under the swelling, demanding a detour from a peaceful family evening at home to one filled with fluorescent lighting, numerous nurses and lots of hospital forms.

The ER adventure lasted three hours, ending with a diagnosis of an extreme reaction to conjunctivitis (because normal reaction was too boring, I assume), and the added bonus of an ear infection as well (“Oh yeah, mom, I can’t hear out of that ear”, would have been a handy thing to know earlier on). And then, the remaining wee hours of the night were spent holding a screaming seven-year old as he shrieked and squirmed in horrible pain (what is a mother to do with such pain?) and you tell your kid he will be fine, the Advil will kick in, the antibiotic will kick in – and you want to offer love and full force of confidence and assurance as you are The Mother (and Mother knows best, right?) but he will not, cannot, be held. He cannot be contained through his pain that has suddenly and ravenously devoured that precious little body and you watch a million tiny crystals shatter in you, as something tremendous breaks and your mouth dries up ever so slightly; you cannot help him at this very moment and so you plead this episode (which you later find out to be a ruptured eardrum) will soon end and allow his exhausted small self to fall into forgiving sleep so that you can let out that breath you’ve been holding in all day; carefully exhaling so as not to disrupt the delicately woven web of his well-being at this particular point in time.

You feel incredibly hopeless but you are not hopeless. The Advil does kick in, the fatigue takes a hold and you are left with tiny fists clenched and a sleeping child, his flustered panting the only remnant of the pain that kept him up just minutes ago. A sense of relief begins to absorb you right along with hunger: violent, tactless hunger, because you realize in all this time you’ve not eaten a thing not even a sip of water.

The appetite is loud and angry and doesn’t take your neglect well. You need something full and filling, rich and creamy, sweet and savory with a crunch as well; something to engage all your senses and distract you from what has left such a rattled stamp. And so you shuffle over to your refrigerator in the darkness of night and hope you will find the unfindable in there. This is like a woman in search of her perfect mate: it just ain’t that easy (for you’ve read countless articles about this, watched Oprah and her clones, you are in touch). But in this case you are amazed at how in tune you are with yourself, for, gleaming amongst bowls of oranges, egg crates and the faithful tub of mayonnaise, sits your Creamy Labneh Chicken Salad begging for a midnight rendezvous. It is sweet, savory, crunchy, and velvety all in one and it is yours for this night.

A smile replaces the furrowed brow that has been your uniform all evening. And even though it is midnight and you are tired beyond words you now dash, dash I say, for a spoon, grab that entire bowl of creamy deliciousness, feeling the tang of the Middle Eastern sour cream delicacy of Labneh, the sugary assurance of golden raisins and plump grapes and the steadfast American crunch of celery and, selfishly and quietly, you eat by the glow of the kitchen fridge.

You eat and already you know things will be better tomorrow.

Like many seven-year olds, my dad was my ultimate heroic figure.  He could do no wrong, say no wrong, and was always filled with an alluring intrigue.  He also was an amazing storyteller.  My father’s stories weren’t about monsters he battled with swords or rough oceans he bravely steered ships through or mythical creatures he aligned with to save the universe.  My father’s adventure tales were all real.  Born in Israel, then called Palestine, in 1933, my dad’s place in history gave him a first rate place in storytelling.

I was an eager and voracious listener, clinging onto his every word as if my life depended on it.  His stories where always vivid and alive and somehow woven in with food of some sort.   His mother’s incredible Lemon Meringue Pie was one of those food items that came up again ...Read on]]>

Like many seven-year olds, my dad was my ultimate heroic figure.  He could do no wrong, say no wrong, and was always filled with an alluring intrigue.  He also was an amazing storyteller.  My father’s stories weren’t about monsters he battled with swords or rough oceans he bravely steered ships through or mythical creatures he aligned with to save the universe.  My father’s adventure tales were all real.  Born in Israel, then called Palestine, in 1933, my dad’s place in history gave him a first rate place in storytelling.

I was an eager and voracious listener, clinging onto his every word as if my life depended on it.  His stories where always vivid and alive and somehow woven in with food of some sort.   His mother’s incredible Lemon Meringue Pie was one of those food items that came up again and again.  No one, apparently, could duplicate it.  He’d return home from some sort of mischief with his cousin Rafi and there it would be, the perfect combination of tart and sweet and fluff gulped in irreplaceable bites. Recounting the Jerusalem siege would bring up more food memories. The road climbing up to the city was locked in battle and little food was available, so my father mustered up stories of making do with meals of grass, tea and if lucky, scraps of some type of meat.  On good days, you’d have an occasional egg. (Our family joke growing up was that this was why my father was so obsessed with hording food in the fridge as an adult.  We called it his Jerusalem Siege Complex.)  He talked about his father Isaac Abbady’s historical role as the official translator for the British government in Palestine, where all the players, from the British, to the Jews to the Arabs, seemed somehow dependent on this man’s intelligent and accurate interpretations. Of course, equally fascinating was my grandfather’s obsession with Cacciocavallo, a salty aged goat cheese he would fry into crispy bites. This was the stuff of the perfect movie and it was coming to me live through endless enthusiasm that sparked off my father’s hazel eyes.

Then there were the wild James-Dean-like tales of my father.  The ones that occasionally made my mother blush or quietly shake her head and walk away, but the ones my sisters and I equally adored and demanded to be told over and over and over.  His daring move to New York as a young entrepreneur and all the challenges and successes that brought on, the endless list of starlet American college women (all from upscale Ivy League stock, of course) that he mesmerized, and then the blind date that almost didn’t happen with a young woman named Marilyn who ended up stopping his heart with her beautiful smile, graceful figure, sharp wit and unparallel intelligence.  Marilyn was only filling in for her roommate who had backed out of her blind date at the last minute.  Marilyn didn’t really feel like going, but went anyway, she was that kind of friend: loyal and kind.  Thankfully that meeting stirred a series of events that would lead to marriage and eventually to me.  Of course, during this important chunk of their history, many meals where shared, but the one that sticks to most stories is Marilyn’s famous Spanish Rice, a stew of ground beef, rice, green peppers and spices, which was all she knew how to cook and all they could afford to eat!

My dad is 76 now and still manages to find adventure.  High tales follow him wherever he goes.  Food is also still an integral part of his day to day, whether it be rubbing shoulders with local Ecuadorian market vendors where he sells his hotdogs every Saturday, perusing one of the cookbooks that line his library, or cooking up his superb omelets bursting with fresh herbs and cheeses.  I feel the same way about this omelet as he does about his mother’s lemon meringue pie:  there will never be one as tasty.  When I think about him I often wonder what meal he is enjoying: it is the one solid ground we’ve always had, despite many other ups and downs.  It is an obsession he helped pass on to me (and I dare say, like him, I’ve been known to wonder out loud during lunch what we will be having for dinner).  And no matter what, I always, always miss his omelet.

Como muchos niños de siete años, mi papá era mi figura heroica última. Él no podría hacer ningún mal, decir ningún mal, y siempre me llenaba de fascinación. Él también era un cuentista asombroso. Las historias de mi padre no eran sobre monstruos que él combatió con espadas o criaturas míticas con las que él se alineó para salvar el universo. Los cuentos de aventura de mi padre eran todos verdaderos. Nacido en Israel, Palestina en aquel entonces, en 1933, el lugar de mi papá en la historia le dio un primer puesto para contra unas verdaderas aventuras.

Yo siempre escuchaba atentamente, adhieriendo en su cada palabra como si mi vida dependió de ello. Sus historias donde siempre eran tejidas con comida de alguna clase. El Pie de Merengue de Limón increíble de su madre es uno ...Read on]]>

Como muchos niños de siete años, mi papá era mi figura heroica última. Él no podría hacer ningún mal, decir ningún mal, y siempre me llenaba de fascinación. Él también era un cuentista asombroso. Las historias de mi padre no eran sobre monstruos que él combatió con espadas o criaturas míticas con las que él se alineó para salvar el universo. Los cuentos de aventura de mi padre eran todos verdaderos. Nacido en Israel, Palestina en aquel entonces, en 1933, el lugar de mi papá en la historia le dio un primer puesto para contra unas verdaderas aventuras.

Yo siempre escuchaba atentamente, adhieriendo en su cada palabra como si mi vida dependió de ello. Sus historias donde siempre eran tejidas con comida de alguna clase. El Pie de Merengue de Limón increíble de su madre es uno de aquellos que se repetia mucho en sus cuentos. Nadie, por lo visto, podría duplicarlo. Él volvería a casa despues de alguna clase de travesura con su primo Rafi y allí estaría el pie de merengue de su madre: la combinación perfecta de tarta y caramelo y espuma disfrutada en mordiscos irremplazables. El recuento del sitio de Jerusalén criaría más memorias de comida. El camino que sube hasta la ciudad fue cerrado por la batalla y poco alimento estaba disponible, entonces mi padre contaria de comidas de hierba, té y para los afortunados, restos de algún tipo de carne. (Nuestro chiste entre familia era que esto era por qué mi padre estuvo tan obsesionado con tener la nevera llena de comida como un adulto. Lo llamamos su Complejo de Sitio de Jerusalén.) Él habló del papel histórico de su padre Isaac Abbady como el traductor oficial para el gobierno británico en Palestina, donde todos los jugadores, del Británico, a los Judíos a los Árabes, parecidos de alguna manera dependiente en las interpretaciones inteligentes y exactas de este hombre. Por supuesto, igualmente fascinante era la obsesión de mi abuelo con Cacciocavallo, un queso de cabra salado que él freiría en mordeduras crujientes. Este era la materia de la película perfecta y me llegaba directamente por el entusiasmo interminable que provocó los ojos color de avellana de mi padre.

Entonces había cuentos estilo James-Dean sobre mi padre. Su mudanza audaz a Nueva York como un empresario joven y todos los desafíos y éxitos que provocaron, la lista interminable de mujeres de colegio finos americanos que él hipnotizó, y luego la cita ciega que casi no pasó con una mujer joven llamada Marilyn que terminó por parar su corazón con su sonrisa hermosa, figura elegante, ingenio agudo e inteligencia sin paralela. Marilyn sólo reemplazaba su compañera de cuarto que habia cancelada a ultimo momento. Marilyn realmente no tuvo ganas de ir, pero fue de todos modos, ella era esa clase de amiga: leal y amable. Por suerte aquella reunión movió una serie de acontecimientos que conducirían al matrimonio y finalmente a mí. ¡Por supuesto, durante este cacho importante de su historia, muchas comidas fueron compartidas, pero el que se atiene a la mayor parte de historias es el Arroz español famoso de Marilyn, un guisado de picadillo, arroz, pimientas verdes y especias, que era todo lo que sabía preparar!

Mi papá tiene 76 años ahora y todavía logra encontrar aventura. Los cuentos lo siguen dondequiera que él vaya. La comida es todavía una parte integrante de su día: si ello frotar hombros con vendedores de mercado ecuatorianos locales donde él vende sus perritos calientes cada sábado, leyendo detenidamente uno de los libros de cocina que adornan su biblioteca, o preparando su tortilla magníficas que se revientan con hierbas frescas y quesos. Siento lo mismo sobre esta tortilla de huevos que él sobre el pie de merengue de limón de su madre: nunca habrá un tan sabroso. Cuando pienso en él a menudo me pregunto de que comida estara disfrutando: esto es una tierra sólida que siempre teníamos, a pesar de muchos otros altibajos. Esto es una obsesión que él ayudó a pasarme (y me atrevo a decir, como él, se ha conocido que yo me pregunto en voz alta durante el almuerzo lo que tendremos para la cena). Y pase lo que pase, siempre, siempre, me hace falta su tortilla.

When I got married almost fourteen years ago my husband and I honeymooned in Thailand. After the prerequisite stop in Bangkok, we ended up on the tiny island of Koh Samui where we saw other equally enamored tourists sweating their way through their first days of matrimony on bicycle rentals, something that may have seemed a good idea in their brochure back in Hackensack, but trust me, in the humidity and heat of Thailand, was not fun.

Mr. and Mrs. Martinez (you know, these were the days when I practiced saying Mrs. Martinez, Mrs. Martinez, Mrs. Martinez in giddy gulps of newness) thought otherwise and rented a motorcycle. It was nothing fancy, we aren’t Harley-types, but rather a dusty red Yamaha dirt bike that we used to zoom along the narrow and crazy island streets, exploring each new ...Read on]]>

When I got married almost fourteen years ago my husband and I honeymooned in Thailand. After the prerequisite stop in Bangkok, we ended up on the tiny island of Koh Samui where we saw other equally enamored tourists sweating their way through their first days of matrimony on bicycle rentals, something that may have seemed a good idea in their brochure back in Hackensack, but trust me, in the humidity and heat of Thailand, was not fun.

Mr. and Mrs. Martinez (you know, these were the days when I practiced saying Mrs. Martinez, Mrs. Martinez, Mrs. Martinez in giddy gulps of newness) thought otherwise and rented a motorcycle. It was nothing fancy, we aren’t Harley-types, but rather a dusty red Yamaha dirt bike that we used to zoom along the narrow and crazy island streets, exploring each new corner of our love vacation and finding an abandoned beach or two in which to celebrate it in.

So, aside from being a wild, crazy and unsafe detour to our now-domesticated life (take Dani to gymnastics, take Jonathan to hip hop, buy milk, call a/c guy), motorcycles hold special meaning to our relationship because it sealed our thirst for adventure and foolishness with fun and free delight. There have been many motorcycle escapades throughout our history together: viewing the pyramids in the Valley of the Kings (Kawasaki blue bike), skimming along gridlocked streets in Caracas, Venezuela (Suzuki, midnight black) and zipping around the impressive Roman Coliseum in the perquisite Italian Vespa (silver).

On our last trip to Spain, we found ourselves zooming around on another Vespa (red) winding amongst the congested streets of Madrid like two free lovebirds with the wind whipping through our helmet-clad hair and my camera bouncing in my hand determined to capture each vicarious moment. We had handed our children over to my brother-in-law and sped off for a two-hour tour of both the city and our lost youth with equal freedom and love. I snapped pictures of our journey along the way. It is an inevitable thing to do while being caressed by the impressive buildings of Madrid. There are too many grandiose statues, prestigious architectural gems, and enchanting balconies that beg digital remembering.

And along the way we found other interesting spots, like a candy shop whose entire display window was covered in the Spanish staple snack food of potato chips (I made my husband do a crazy illegal U-turn to photograph that one). It reminded me of those ball pits I used to take my kids to when they were little: an endless drop into thousands of hundreds of bright colorful balls children would jump into and get lost- my daughter especially loved those (my son would tend to spend hours trying to empty the bin by throwing each and every ball out). I’d sit and watch, feverish with worry; would they get lost in the bottom like quick sand, swallowed by spheres of red, yellow and blue? But they’d always pop up with a gregarious smile, give enough time for a quick second of eye contact with me before diving back down to the depths of their plastic bliss.

Madrid offered a chip pit of sorts, most certainly more tempting to dive into than a kiddie germfest. Of course, no one was found swimming in this national snack. It was more so an outright and proud message of how serious the Spaniards take their chips. We were busy zipping through Madrid so we didn’t stop to enter the store. Still, the chips haunted me so. I had seen them and fallen for them and I now was constantly craving them. It didn’t take much arm-twisting to tell my husband we needed to stop for chips. Stopping for chips meant stopping for beer, and we immediately found the nearest cerveceria (beer bar) for a cold one and a large plate of potato chips.

As I munched I closed my eyes and wondered how the Spaniards managed such a perfect snack. Was it the fact that they were fried in Spanish olive oil? Was it the kind of potato or the perfectly thin slice that allowed for air bubbles to form for that extra, salty crunch? Pontificating on such urgent matters, I took a big gulp of cold beer and a smile filled with adventure and glee grew on my face. This ride had come full circle, and as I looked at my favorite companion shamelessly devour the chips alongside me I realized that youth and adventure where always just a motorcycle ride away.

Patatas fritas españolas: rebelde feliz

Cuando me casé hace casi catorce años mi marido y yo fuimos de luna de miel a Tailandia. Después de la parada necesaria en Bangkok, terminamos en la isla de Koh Samui donde vimos a otros turistas igualmente enamorados sudar como perros con sus alquileres de bicicleta, algo que puede haber parecido una idea buena en el folleto que vieron en casa, pero confía en mí, en la humedad y el calor de Tailandia, no es ninguna diversión.

Sr. y Sra. Martinez (usted sabe, éstos eran los días cuando practiqué el refrán de la Sra. Martinez, Sra. Martinez, Sra. Martinez en tragos vertiginosos de novedad) alquilaron una moto. No era nada grande, no somos de estilo Harley, mas bien era una Yamaha roja en que solíamos zumbar a lo largo de las calles estrechas y locas, explorando cada nueva esquina de nuestras vacaciones de amor y encontrando una playa abandonada o dos donde celebrarlo.

De este modo, aparte de ser un desvío salvaje, loco e inseguro a nuestra vida ahora domesticada (llevar Dani al gimnasio tomar a Jonathan a Hip Hop, comprar leche, llamar plomero), las motocicletas sostienen el sentido especial a nuestra relación porque selló nuestra sed de aventura y tontería con diversión y libertad. Hemos tenido muchas aventuras de motocicleta en todas partes de nuestra historia juntos: viendo las pirámides en el Valle de los Reyes (Kawasaki color azul), navegando a lo largo de calles congestionadas en Caracas, Venezuela (Suzuki, color negra) y disfrutando el bellisimo Coliseo en Vespa (color plata).

En nuestro último viaje a España, nos encontramos zumbando en otra Vespa (color roja) entre las calles llenas de gente de Madrid. Con el viento que volaba por nuestro pelo y mi cámara que brincaba en mi mano, anduvimos determinados de capturar cada momento. Mi cuñado se encargo de los niños y nosotros paseamos dos horas por moto, visitando la cuidad y nuestra juventud con libertad y amor. Tomamos muchas fotos durante nuestra aventura. Esto es una cosa inevitable de hacer siendo magreado por los edificios impresionantes de Madrid. Hay demasiadas estatuas grandiosas, gemas arquitectónicas prestigiosas, y balcones encantadores que piden recordarse digitalmente.

Y a lo largo del camino encontramos otros puntos interesantes, como una tienda de caramelo cuyo escaparate entero fue cubierto con el alimento de bocado básico español de patatas fritas (hice mi marido hacer una vuelta en U ilegal para fotografiar aquello). Esto me recordó de aquellos hoyos de pelota que solía tomar a mis niños cuando estaban chiquiticos: miles de cientos de niños dentro de un mar de pelotas brillantes brincarían y se perdían - mi hija sobre todo lo amaba. Yo me sentaría y miraría, febril con la preocupación; ¿serían perdidos ellos en el fondo como la arena rápida, ingerida por esferas de rojo, amarillo y azul? Pero ellos siempre aparecerían con una sonrisa gregaria, me mirarían rápidamente antes de que saltarian a las profundidades de su felicidad plástica.

Madrid ofreció un hoyo de patatas. Por supuesto, no encontramos nadie nadando dentro de este bocado nacional. Era más bien un mensaje absoluto y orgulloso de que tal seriamente los españoles toman sus patatas fritas. No llegamos a entrar a esa tienda pero paramos en una cerveceria para una fría y un plato grande de patatas fritas.

Probando esta delicia cerré mis ojos y me pregunté como los españoles logran una merienda tan perfecta. ¿Es el hecho que fueron freídos en aceite de oliva español? Pensando en tales asuntos urgentes, tomé un trago grande de cerveza fría y una sonrisa llena de aventura lleno mi cara. Este paseo había terminado con esta merienda y cuando miré a mi compañero favorito desvergonzadamente devorando las patatas fritas junto a mí, realicé que juventud y aventura siempre anda esperando en sólo un paseo de motocicleta.

PATATAS FRITAS DE ACEITE DE OLIVA

(adaptado de Gourmet Magazine, mayo de 1997)

4 patatas (aproximadamente 2 libras)

1 taza de aceite de oliva

Quitar la concha de la papa y picar en rebanadas muy delgadas. Cubrir en agua fria. Seca las rebanadas.

Calienta el aceite en un sartén grande sobre fuego medio alto. Trabajando en hornadas de 8 a 10 rebanadas, fría patatas, girando un par de veces, hasta que esten doradas, 1 1/2 a 2 minutos. Transfiere las patatas fritas con una cuchara grande para drenar y rociar con sal de mar.

Las patatas fritas pueden ser hechas 2 días delante y guardadas en un contenedor hermético.

This week I almost offered my ten-year old daughter a buck to eat her fruit. And by fruit I mean, two teeny tiny strawberries sliced in cubes a toddler could gulp down and not notice. It was a moment, like many, of weakness and sheer desperation where I delved down deep into my heart of capitalism and nearly paid her for the service of leaving me alone and putting something healthy in her body instead. But something held me back. Maybe it was the image of my son, sitting right next to his sister, wolfing down whatever fruit possible at the speed of sound. Maybe it was the memory of having grown up in a tropical country where fruit played a critical role in my household; very different from the way my daughter sees it today. There were ...Read on]]>

This week I almost offered my ten-year old daughter a buck to eat her fruit. And by fruit I mean, two teeny tiny strawberries sliced in cubes a toddler could gulp down and not notice. It was a moment, like many, of weakness and sheer desperation where I delved down deep into my heart of capitalism and nearly paid her for the service of leaving me alone and putting something healthy in her body instead. But something held me back. Maybe it was the image of my son, sitting right next to his sister, wolfing down whatever fruit possible at the speed of sound. Maybe it was the memory of having grown up in a tropical country where fruit played a critical role in my household; very different from the way my daughter sees it today. There were no saran-wrapped watermelons or Styrofoam-packed nectarines, or, God forbid, bag of sliced apples. In Venezuela fruit was readily available at every street corner, dangling off heavy transport trucks or in tiny but cramped fruit shops where it would be regularly purchased and taken home leaving a sweet and delicate fragrance throughout our house.

We used to have a carved out tree stump as our fruit basket. This may sound absurdly large, but it deemed itself necessary, as every week, mom would make her trip to her favorite fruit store, Siempre Fresco (Always Fresh) where the savvy and flirtatious owner would offer her free samples of papaya, mango, or pineapple in order to make his sale, or, as I believed, speak to the pretty gringa lady.

She would return home with bagfuls of tropical delights: pineapple, passion fruit, papaya, mango, guava, carambola, and of course, at least three different kinds of bananas. All of these made their way into my diet, whether as my nanny Yolanda’s famous fruit salad, where she’d meticulously dice each fruit into ¼ inch bites and douse the final product with fresh orange juice, or just simply offered up in slices after a heavy meal. And to my daughter’s credit, I wasn’t always gobbling the stuff up either. There where many moments where I craved God’s gift to Venezuelan children: the candy bar such as Carlton, or a Susy, (both crispy wafers bathed in rich chocolate) instead.

But then I’d hear that warm familiar call from Yolanda, or Yoli, as I’d call her, who’d been busily working in the kitchen as I struggled over algebra homework at the dining room table. I knew whatever she was doing in there had to be something good because by problem number five I was already in a stupor over the distracting aroma emanating from the kitchen: a combination of cinnamon and butterscotch and the sweetness the comes from the earth after a rainstorm.

“Niña!” Yoli would shout. “Ven a comer tu dulce.” I needed few excuses to abandon algebra, but when I heard this command, “Child, come eat your sweets,” all the pieces of the puzzle came together and I understood it could only mean one fantastic thing: I was getting a free trial sample of her famous Baked Bananas. She and I knew that this was meant to be for dinner only, but she and I knew how much we loved to share moments together, especially if it involved food, and more power to it if it temporarily suspended painful tasks such as mathematics.

The lethargy that had guided me through variables of x and y evaporated as quickly as the morning dew on a hot day and I shot my way to the kitchen where Yoli was already ready and waiting for me with a sample of her signature banana dessert. I don’t know how she did it but biting into that dessert always made me melt like butter. The banana was sweet and luscious and oh so comforting, happily swimming in a sauce of butter and rum and cinnamon that had baked into drunken butterscotch perfection. We both knew we had only seconds before La Señora, my mother, would sense my absence in the room next door and come to make sure I was fulfilling my academic duties. But this moment was worth all the risk, with Yoli’s adoring eyes gazing at me as my soul filled with warmth and love and pleasure as I greedily gobbled her amazing baked bananas, inevitably sighing back to that fabulous woman brimming with love and begging her desperately for more, knowing surely my banana plea had given me away and I’d soon find myself facing more horrid algorithms.

cambur con ron al horno: una feliz distraccion de álgebra

Esta semana casi  le ofrecí a mi hija de diez años un dólar para comer su fruta. Y por fruta quiero decir, dos fresas diminutas cortadas en cubos que un niño podría tragar y no dares cuenta.  Esto era en un momento, como muchos, de debilidad y desesperación donde  busque profundamente en mi corazón del capitalismo y casi le pagué para el servicio de dejarme en paz y poner algo sano en su cuerpo en cambio. Pero algo me detuvo. Tal vez era la imagen de mi hijo, sentando directamente a su lado devorando toda la fruta posible con un gusto delicioso. Tal vez me paro la memoria de haber crecido en un país tropical donde la fruta desempeñó un papel crítico en mi casa; muy diferente de  la identificacion con fruta que mi hija lleva hoy. No había patillas ya picadas, nectarinas embaladas en plastico ni bolsas de manzanas cortadas. En Venezuela, la fruta existia en cada equina de la calle, guindando sobre camiones o en tiendas de fruta diminutas pero apretadas donde sería con regularidad comprado y llevada a casa, dejando una fragancia dulce y delicada en todas partes de nuestro hogar.

Solíamos tener un tocón de árbol forjado como nuestro canasto de la fruta. Este puede parecer absurdamente grande, pero se juzgó necesario, cuando cada semana, mi mamá haría su viaje a su tienda de fruta favorita, Siempre Fresco, donde el dueño (un italiano coqueto) ofrecería sus muestras libres de papaya, mango, o piña a fin de hacer su venta, o, mas bien, hablar con la bella señora gringa.

Mi madre volvería a casa con bolsas de placeres tropicales: piña, parchita, papaya, mango, guayaba, carambola, y por supuesto, al menos tres clases diferentes de cambur. Todos éstos hicieron su camino en mi dieta, en forma de la famosa ensalada de fruta de mi niñera Yolanda, donde meticulosamente picaba cada fruta en pedacitos de ¼ de pulgada y empapaba el producto final con jugo de naranja, o simplemente ofrecido en rebanadas después de una comida pesada. Y al crédito de mi hija, yo no siempre quería comer fruta tampoco. Habían muchos momentos donde me provocaba un Carlton o Susy (el regalo de Dios a niños venezolanos: obleas crujientes bañadas en chocolate rico) en cambio.

Pero entonces yo oiría la llamada familiar de Yolanda, o Yoli, como le decia, quien ya había estado trabajando furiosamente en la cocina mientras que yo luchaba sobre la tarea de álgebra en la mesa de comedor. Yo sabía que ella tuvo que haber hecho algo delicioso porque por el problema número cinco yo estaba ya en un estupor sobre el aroma  que emana de la cocina y tracionaba mi concentracion: una combinación de canela y caramelo de mantequilla y el olor dulce de la grama después de una lluvia torrencial.

¡“Niña!”  Yoli gritaría. “Ven para probar tu dulce.”  Necesitaba pocas excusas para abandonar el álgebra, pero cuando oí esta orden entendí que esto sólo podría significar una cosa fantástica: me tocaba una muestra de su Cambur al Horno famoso. Ella y yo sabíamos cuánto amabamos compartir momentos juntas, sobre todo si esto implicaba algo de comida y más aun si esto temporalmente suspendiera tareas dolorosas como matemáticas.

El letargo que me había dirigido por variables de x y y evaporaron tan rápidamente como el rocío de la mañana durante un día caliente y pegué un tiro hacia la cocina donde Yoli estaba lista y esperando con una muestra de su postre. No sé como ella lo hizo pero mordiendo en aquel postre siempre me hacía derretirme como mantequilla. El cambur era dulce y delicioso y ay tan consolador, felizmente nadando en una salsa de la mantequilla y ron y canela que había horneado en la perfección de caramelo de mantequilla borracha. Nosotras ambas sabíamos que teníamos sólo segundos antes que La Señora, mi madre, sentiría mi ausencia en el cuarto al lado y vendría para asegurarse que yo realizaba mis deberes académicos. Pero este momento mereció todo el riesgo, con los ojos de adoración de Yoli que me miraban fijamente mientras mi alma llenaba de calor y amor, inevitablemente suspire a aquella mujer fabulosa que rebosaba de amor y la pedi desesperadamente para más, sabiendo que seguramente mi súplica de cambur me habia desubierto con mi madre y pronto me encontraria afrontada por algoritmos más horrorosos.

Cambur al Horno de Yolanada

Este plato originalmente requiere cambures titiaro, un cambur pequeño, salvaje que crece en la selva de Amazonas. Usted puede encontrarlo en algunos mercados, pero si no, esto trabaja perfectamente con la clase convencional.

1 taza de agua

1 taza de azúcar moscabada

15 plátanos titiaro maduros, o 6 plátanos maduros, pelados y cortados en a mitad longitudinal

4 cucharones de mantequilla

¼ taza de vino Oporto

¼ taza de ron oscuro

1  cucharilla de canela

½ cucharilla de jugo de limon fresco

helado de vainilla

En un sartén grande, profundo no reactivo, combine el agua con el azúcar.  Cocinar sobre el calor medio hasta que el azúcar se disuelve. Añada cambur, mantequilla, Oporto, 2 cucharadas de ron ron y canela. Hierve y reduzca el calor. Suavemente hierva a fuego lento, embastando cambur con la mezcla de azúcar, 25 minutos. Añada el jugo de limon ¼ taza de ron.  Sirve con el helado de vainilla.

Sirve 6

This is the day that your headache won’t go away, regardless the amounts of Advil you’ve wolfed down with a Tums chaser so you won’t get an ulcer with the water so you’re not left with chalk jammed in your teeth. This is the day you’ll be stuck behind Grandma driving 37 miles per hour on the freeway and you will honk and curse and huff and puff like an idiot in a rush to go nowhere just because it’s that kind of day.

You can’t see her well, Grandma. She’s shriveled down to a solid 4’8” and that’s including the lavender hair but you could swear when the sun hits at an angle just so and you squint and look at her rearview mirror, well, you could swear that that little old lady is smiling at you. ...Read on]]>

This is the day that your headache won’t go away, regardless the amounts of Advil you’ve wolfed down with a Tums chaser so you won’t get an ulcer with the water so you’re not left with chalk jammed in your teeth. This is the day you’ll be stuck behind Grandma driving 37 miles per hour on the freeway and you will honk and curse and huff and puff like an idiot in a rush to go nowhere just because it’s that kind of day.

You can’t see her well, Grandma. She’s shriveled down to a solid 4’8” and that’s including the lavender hair but you could swear when the sun hits at an angle just so and you squint and look at her rearview mirror, well, you could swear that that little old lady is smiling at you. Or at life. Or at something you certainly aren’t smiling with her about.

We’ve all had these days but the grin on Grandma during mine threw me for a loop to the extent that when the steroid-happy 18-wheeler finally flew by me on my left side, allowing a window of opportunity to pass Grandma’s cruising rate, I opted out and obediently chugged along behind her, suddenly wondering what that mind that held that grin was so damn happy about.

It could be her grandson’s bar mitzvah she was going to, I concluded silently. She was so proud of that boy. Michael was her oldest of 12 grandchildren but he was her favorite (even if his hair was too long.) He held her same smile, no doubt, and she was pleased at how assertive and grown up he was becoming. He would be outfitted in an oversized dark blue suit and nervous as hell. But then her outfit was too casual for a bar mitzvah. I could see that from here (as I realized how precariously close I was to her Cadillac).

Maybe she was returning from bingo with the girls. Or bridge. Or some sort of social cliché for octogenarians. She would spend a couple of hours of company, away from the solitude of her tiny apartment, together they’d drink Old English tea (sometimes a shot of something to loosen the morning along) and many shared laughs. She’d almost always win too. Again, the smile: a dead giveaway of some sort of glorious happiness.

But then I noticed some bags poking out of her trunk, which I realized wasn’t properly shut. (I also realized it was time for me to back off a bit.) They where grocery store bags and it all clicked as I understood the smile. Grandma was a cook. She was having the whole clan over for brunch and it would be the typical spread with eggs and lox and bagels but what would make this meal stellar would be Grandma’s killer blintzes. They would be moist and tender and slightly salty on the inside, snuggled within a blanket of dough and doused with a fresh berry sauce, none of this canned jelly stuff from the diner.

Grandma would have stories about picking berries like these off the mountain as a child while hiking with papa in some distant European land. She would retell tales of her youth as everyone bit into her clouds of heaven and in quiet oohs and ahhs they’d listen, with eyes closed, as if this where a symphony of memory with taste and everyone in that table, yes, everyone, I know, would grin. Because grandma had the power to do that. Even to me. Even on such a day. Even at 37 miles an hour, how I longed to follow her home.

Blintzes de Queso con Compote de Fruta: Decifrando una Sonrisa

Este es el día que tu dolor de cabeza no se marchará, ni si quiera con las cantidades de aspirina que has tragado y las tabletas Tums para no terminar con una úlcera de tanta pastilla tomar. Este es el día que manejarás detrás de la Abuela que conduce 37 millas por hora en la autopista y blasfemarás y resollarás como un idiota en una prisa no para ir a ninguna parte sólo porque es aquella clase de día.

No la puedes ver bien, la Abuela. Ha marchitado como una florecita vieja y casi no las vez detras de su volante, incluyendo el pelo de color lavanda pero si podrías jurar que cuando el sol golpea en un ángulo y bizqueas y miras su retrovisor, pues jurarías que aquella pequeña vieja señora esta sonríendote. O a la vida. O sobre algo que tu seguramente no compartes con ella.

Hemos tenido todos días como este pero la sonrisa de la Abuela me dejo pensando y cuando tuve oportunidad de pasarla, opté no hacerlo y seguí tras ella obedientemente de repente preguntándome que era esa sonrisa que la hacía tan feliz.

Esto podría ser el bar mitzvah de su nieto al que ella iba, concluí silenciosamente. Ella estaba tan orgullosa de aquel muchacho. Michael era el más grande de 12 nietos pero él era su favorito (aun si su pelo fuera demasiado largo.) Él sostuvo su misma sonrisa, sin duda, y ella estuvo contenta en que tan asertivo y crecido estaba. Cargaría puesto un chaleco azul oscuro que le quedaría demasiado grande y estaría nerviosísimo, el pobre. Pero entonces ví que su vestido era demasiado informal para un bar mitzvah.

Tal vez volvía del bingo con sus amigas, o alguna clase de cliché social para octogenarios. Gastaría un par de horas de la compañía, lejos de la soledad de su apartamento diminuto, juntos ellos beberían un té ingles y compartarían cuentos de los nietos o los novios…Ella casi siempre ganaría también. Otra vez, la sonrisa: símbolo de alguna clase de felicidad gloriosa.

Pero entonces noté algúnas bolsas saliendo de su tronco, que realicé no fue correctamente cerrado. (También realicé que esto era el tiempo para echarme atrás un poco.) Y entendí la sonrisa: Abuela era una chef! Ella tenía el clan entero para el desayuno-almuerzo y esto sería la comida típica con huevos y salmón curado y bagels, pero lo que haría esta comida estelar sería los famosos blintzes de la Abuela. Ellos serían delicados y deliciosos y ligeramente salados en el interior, bañados con una salsa de moras frescas.

La abuela tendría historias sobre la recolección de moras de la montaña como niña yendo de excursión con su papá en alguna tierra europea distante. Ella volvería a contar cuentos de su juventud cuando cada uno de su familia mordía sus nubes del cielo y en oohs y ahhs ellos escucharían, con ojos cerrados, como si una sinfonía de memoria con el gusto estaria tocando y cada uno en aquella mesa, sí, cada uno, sé, sonreiría abiertamente como la abuela tenía el poder de hacer esto. Incluso a mí. Incluso durante tal día. Incluso en 37 millas por hora, como tuve ganas de seguirla a su casa.

Blintzes con Compota de Fruta

(Adaptado del Libro de Alimento Judío, por Claudia Roden)

Para el blintz:

1 taza de harina

1 ¼ taza de leche

2/3 tazas de agua

1 huevo

½ cucharilla de sal

1 cucharón más para engrasar la cazuela

Para el relleno

1 libra de queso cottage

½ libra de queso de crema

½ azúcar de taza

cascara de una naranja

3 yemas

½ extracto de vainilla de cucharilla

2-3 cucharones derritieron la mantequilla

nevazucar para rociar encima

Añada la leche y el agua a la harina gradualmente. Añada el huevo, la sal y el petróleo y golpee el rebozado hasta liso. Deje al rebozado sentarse, 1-2 horas, preferentemente durante la noche.

Para la compota de fruta:

2 ½ tazas frambuesas congeladas (aproximadamente 11 onzas)

2 tazas 1/2 moras congelados (aproximadamente 11 onzas)

12 onzas de fresas frescas, partidas por la mitad

1 taza de azúcar

1 cucharilla rallyada de cáscara de naranja

1 cucharon de maizena

jugo de medio limón

Combine las frambuesa, mora y fresas, el azúcar y la cáscara de limón en un tazón grande. Dejelo a temperatura de cuarto hasta que las frutas se descongelen, el azúcar se disuelve y forma jugo en el tazón, moviéndose de vez en cuando, aproximadamente 1 ½ horas.

Cuela las frutas y reserva el liquido. Agriega maizena en cacerola media pesada. Gradualmente añada jugos reservados a la maizena, batiendo hasta liso. Bate sobre el calor alto hasta que el jarabe está grueso y claro, aproximadamente 2 minutos. Quitalo del fuego y enfriarlo 15 minutos. Agrega frutas a la mezcla de jarabe. Ajuste la acidez con el jugo de limón. (Puede estar listo 3 horas delante. Tapa y enfrie.)

Precaliente el horno a 375 grados. Caliente un sartén de 8” (o una cazuela de crepes si usted lo tiene) sobre el calor alto medio y engrase ligeramente con el aceite. Prepárese como un crepe: vierta una cucharada grande en el centro de la cazuela y haga girar la cazuela en el movimiento circular hasta que la superficie entera este cubierta. Cocine un minuto y el de le la vuelta con una espátula para medio minuto más. Siga hasta que todo el rebozado sea usado y montóne blintzes en un plato. Para el relleno, mezcle el queso cottage y el queso de crema con el azúcar, cascara de naranja, yemas y vainilla en un mezclador. Tome cada tortita, 1 a la vez, y ponga 2 cucharones que amontonan del relleno en el fondo mitad, plegado del borde de la tortita sobre el relleno y doblando los lados para cerrar. Enróllelo apretado, como una tortilla mexicana. Coloque los rollos lado al lado en un plato de horno engrasado. Rocie de la mantequilla y hornee durante 20 minutos. Haga la compota de fruta: Sirva caliente con nevazucar del y compota.

Hace 12 blintzes