Mint and Tomatoes

My father, the inspiration behind this story

A moving piece I wrote for my Sustainable Gastronomy class:

When I was 7-years old the fence of our backyard was covered in mint. The mint bushes grew tall and abundant, their fragrance perfuming every inch of the perimeter around the fence. One day I discovered you could actually eat the leaves. Papi said, “Es menta. Cómete una.” He encouraged me to try it because it would refresh my breath.

Hesitantly, I plucked a leaf from the nearest plant, carefully inspected it, and put the tip in my mouth. The smell of the mint assaulted my nostrils and urged me to take a bite. My teeth pierced the leaf and my tongue swirled it around my mouth.

“Hmmm,” I thought. The mint in my mouth felt like breeze cooling my tongue. I loved it!

For the rest of the summer, I plucked mint leaves every time I walked by the fence. Sometimes I would leap out of our little frog-shaped pool and run to grab a mint leaf. I would call out to my brothers and sister to come try it. Then we’d walk back to the swimming pool munching on mint and leaving our wet footprints on the sidewalk.

That was the summer I discovered tomatoes. My dad would spend countless hours in the sun pruning and staking his tomato plants. When the tomatoes finally ripened they were bright red with a hint of orange.

My father would pick them right before dinner and I was his little helper. Trailing behind him, I would carry big round ripe tomatoes which seemed enormous in my small hands. Afterwards, we would sit at the dinner table and he would serve fresh slices on each of our dinner plates. The tomatoes were sweet and juicy, elevating our humble dinner of rice, beans and meat to gourmet status.

When I think of my childhood I always go back to mint and tomatoes. Unbelievably, my father grew both in our tiny patch of backyard that was situated between two brick houses. A cook, a farmer and a lover of the land, my father instilled in me precious values that tied my urban childhood to the Puerto Rican farms he grew up in.

Every summer when I plant tomatoes, I know my father’s legacy lives on.

Great news!

                                                                 Photo: Hispanic Kitchen

Hispanic Kitchen, a hispanic food networking site, picked up one of my Examiner.com stories! I'm thrilled! Read on: http://www.hispanickitchen.com/profiles/blogs/queso-blanco-make-your-own-its

Here's the original: http://www.examiner.com/ethnic-foods-in-miami/queso-blanco-easy-to-make-and-muy-delicioso

Sipping Chai in Piemonte

Tonight chai warms my heart and soul. As I press the warm mug to my chest, I inhale the spices that seem to dance in perfect harmony with each other. Just like a stone laying in the sun, I absorb the heat from the cup and instant warmth spreads through my body.

Although I’m surrounded by the Alps, this simple cup of creamy masala chai transports me to my days in India. The tantalizing scent of cinnamon and ginger trigger memories of long journeys through the mountains stretching south of Mumbai to Goa.

One cold morning we stopped for breakfast at a mountainside open-air restaurant. The drop in temperature had made my fingers stiff. With my stomach growling and with the urgent need to warm up, I ordered tea before our breakfast.

Minutes went by and our food arrived first: upma, idly sambar, potato vada and uthapam. Every dish was deliciously spicy and fulfilling. Impatiently, I awaited my chai with the same enthusiasm children reserve for dessert after being forced to eat their vegetables.

Finally, it arrived. Steam rose from the tiny cups it was served in. The masala chai stood before me, I bowed my head and inhaled a swirl of spices that woke up my senses and urged me to drink. Just one sip was enough for me to close my eyes and revere its creaminess.

Rich, creamy, sweet and fragrant. This is what masala chai should be. Why had I had never experienced chai like this in the United States? Was the method of preparation different? What were these Indians doing that the ones in the United States were not?

It all came down to the quality of the milk used in its preparation.

In India, the milk was fresh and did not have a two-month expiration date (unlike a lot of milk varieties sold in the United States).  You would be surprised how much extending the shelf life of a product decreases its flavor.

Here in Piemonte the milk is fresh, wholesome and rich. Combined with black tea and spices, it becomes the perfect vehicle for a divine chai experience.

I may be miles away from India but tonight, as I press the hot mug against my chest and close my eyes, I am back driving through the mountains on our long journey to Goa.

Bella Italia!

Someone pinch me. Am I really here? Did I just arrive in Italy and make my dreams come true?

I stepped foot in the Universitá di Scienze Gastronomiche today and my heart wanted to burst with joy. Every step I took inside the old palazzo that now houses the school seemed to lead to a dream.

A beautiful smiling face greeted me. "Are you Rose?" It was Hanna, the registar's secretary who has helped me on my way since last October when I found out I was admitted to the school.

Everything in Italy is slower, things seem to move at a snail's pace. Eating, drinking or anything involved with food requires time to savour it.

Upon arriving at Torino airport my friend Silvia and I ordered a panino "to go." Blasphemy! There's no such thing as eating on the road.

As Jerry from the panini stall explained, "Food is to be enjoyed in Italy. It's a gift, an opportunity to stop and enjoy life. Why not take 5 mintues to enjoy your coffee?"

The guilt picked at me a little but I had to wrap up the conversation, grab my sandwich and hit the road. I was already late to get to Bra. I figure it's only my first day in Italy. I'll learn as I go...