The Angel Dance

                                                                                                                                      

My sister tells me her daughter cries at night because she misses grandma. "When is abuela coming back?" she asks between tears. My sister's heart breaks a little each time she has to explain that grandma won't be coming back at all. "But why?" 

How do you explain death to a 5 year old? How do you break a child's heart by telling them the person they love and miss so much is not coming back? How do you explain that death is final?

My niece was my mother's best friend. Every day after coming home from work, mami would have a special treat for Natty. Maybe it was a toy or candy. Or something outrageous like a pink velvet cowgirl hat. Whatever it was, mami and Natty would giggle nonstop when they were together.

Natty really brought out the inner child in my mother. I honestly feel this helped her live longer. My mother was always sick, most times not feeling well enough to even get out of bed. But when Natty was around they would play together, laugh together and get into trouble together. 

When my mother died, we told Natty that abuela had gone "with the angels." This seemed to suffice. Natty understood that angels lived in heaven. She even came up with her very own angel dance. When you asked where grandma was, Natty would flap her arms while twirling around the living room.

It's been two and a half years since mami left us. Natty was only 3 years old then. I knew that she remembered grandma but I was shocked to hear that she cries at night because she misses her. What did my sister tell her?

"When someone dies it means they are not coming back. It's ok, though. Because that person lives in our hearts." As my sister rattled on with her explanation, tears streamed down my face, neck and onto my lap. I could not stop crying. I wanted so much to be silent, to pretend everything was ok. I didn't want to hurt my sister. Miles away in Italy, there's not much I can do. I mean, I can't even hug my sister or niece. So, I not-so-quietly expressed my pain in sobs.

Yesterday, Natty turned six. I remembered the day she was born. When I arrived at the hospital, my mother was holding her. There was something different in her face, a look that was foreign to me.  She stared at Natty with a serene, loving gaze. I did not quite understand it then but I recognize it in a heartbeat now. That look was sheer love radiating from my mother's face. I know that this love lives on, wherever she may be.

I'm sure mami is touched that Natty remembers her abuela so fondly and vividly. I hope she's sending hugs from above. Who knows? Maybe mami is doing her own angel dance.

Raising my glass

The little boy who once chased me around our backyard has turned into a man. My youngest brother is now a husband. Someday he will become a father.  


Today I raise my glass to Jesus and his lovely bride Mary. They have seen the best in each other and have found fortune in their love. Where there is love, there is joy. Joy is a fruit of happiness and those who eat from its tree are blessed.


May the path of those bound by love and promise be paved with compassion, understanding, caring, respect and deep commitment.


To Mr. and Mrs. Colón! Salud! 

Seeing the light

Pain was an old friend I got used to carrying. Somehow, it always made its way into every suitcase I packed. Like a ghost, it was my silent travel companion. 


In India, it accompanied me to every temple and church. It was the cause of the tears I shed along the Arabic Sea. Instead of focusing on the dolphins floating along the Goan coast, I looked out on the horizon and nursed my broken heart.


Pain does not require a passport and thus made its way to Italy with me.  As I knelt at St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City, grateful I was beginning my new journey last spring, my merciless companion was busy at work.  Tears, pregnant with pain, trickled down to my bent knees as I prayed for peace and a mended soul.


Once the school year began, my concealed enemy permeated every wine and cheese tasting I was supposed to be enjoying. Much like a sensor you cannot control, my depression came and went as it pleased. Determined to beat it, I busied myself with school, new friends and more travels.


This summer, somewhere along a dusty road in the Romanian countryside, something shifted.  As I walked uphill carrying a 20 pound backpack, I stopped to take in the view. Small blueberry bushes exhibited their lush fruit. A dog barked in the distance. Morning clouds had scattered, allowing the sun to warm my skin. I thought of Mami. 


Since losing my mother two years ago I have walked a path painted in shades of grey. While there have been bursts of color along the way, depression pinned me to a shadowy corner. But that morning in Transylvania my load felt lighter as I climbed towards happiness.  


Life sometimes becomes an uphill battle but my mother taught me that you must persevere. You must do what it takes to power through. Do you know what happens along the way? You shed layers of unhappiness and before knowing it, you see the light again.

Spicy Rose Tip of the Day

Next time you enjoy papaya think twice about tossing its seeds! Papaya seeds, glistening black pearls encased in the center of the fruit, can be used to tenderize meats. This is all the work of an enzyme called "papain" that helps digest proteins. Place the seeds on a small plate and let air dry on a windowsill. When dry, place in a pepper mill and grind onto your favorite marinade.  Curious about papaya? Click here.

If Heaven Wasn't So Far Away

As I was folding my laundry this morning, with the radio in the background, this beautiful country song played. It reminded me of my mom and others we've lost along the way. I hope you listen to it!

Empanadas and Samosas

Inside my closet, behind a stack of neatly folded sweaters, lays a box I seldom open. Inside are memories of my mother: a worn zebra patterned diary from her teenage years, an old Valentine’s Day card she sent me and a small sachet where she kept a Buddha I sent her from my travels in Malaysia.

There is also a royal blue velvet pouch where I keep a lock of her blonde hair. Opening this pouch is like tearing my heart wide open. Thus I limit my contact with it. I reserve my peaks inside the velvet pouch for when I miss her most, for when I miss caressing her beautiful golden locks.

As my 31^st birthday approaches, I can’t help but think of the great woman who gave birth to me. How did she feel the day I was born? How many times did she smile and kiss me as she held me in her arms for the first time?

Five years ago, before I moved to Miami, my mother prepared a photo album for me. It contained all of my baby pictures, including some leading up to when I graduated elementary school.

On the very first page of this album is a picture of me when I was only 10 days old. My mother’s handwriting indicates the date was June 21, 1980. Back then I was just a bundle of joy with round cheeks and brown eyes. How happy she must have been to hold her first baby!

The album is packed away in one of the many boxes I left behind when I moved to Italy but the image of me as a newborn baby is seared in my memory. Now, three decades later I am still wishing my mother could hold me tight and be there to celebrate my birthday.

Mami used to make the best empanadas for me. For my 27^th birthday, the last one I spent with her, she made the most delicious ground beef empanadas ever! Seasoned with adobo and sofrito, they had just the right amount of sliced olives in them. That year, she even went a step further and made guava and cheese empanadas for dessert!

Instead of making them in the traditional half-moon shape, Mami had a peculiar way of folding empanadas. She made them in a triangle shaped, like samosas. Jokingly, she would call these triangular empanadas “carteritas,” or little purses in English.

Curious, I asked why her empanadas looked like samosas.  Her response: "Tata, “carteritas” are perfect for parties because you can get more empanadas from the same amount of dough. Duh!" Oh, a mother's wisdom...

This year, I’m honoring her memory by making empanadas for my birthday. It’ll be hard to find all the ingredients in Italy but it will make me feel much closer to the woman I owe my life too.

Sunday Dinner at Rosa’s

There was nothing like gathering around the dinner table at Rosa’s house on Sunday evening. With children laughing and the aroma of freshly baked cornbread dancing in the air, we engaged in our weekly dining ritual.

Sweet potato soufflé dressed with browned marshmallows, buttered corn and oven-fried chicken were Sunday dinner staples. Buttery pound cake or silky sweet potato pie were the crowning glory of these fine evenings.

As we savored dessert, the steam of mint tea would rise from our mugs and intermingle in our conversations. Smiling faces would burst into laughter and the evening felt complete.

In Italy, I have access to great food, wine and cheeses but I miss those Sunday dinners at Rosa’s. The love and comfort felt around the dinner table still touch me.

I’m reminded of a time I felt compelled to cook for the family.

Nervous about the dinner, I searched for recipes and slaved away in the kitchen hoping everyone would like it. More than anything, I wanted to share my gratitude to Rosa for being a loving adoptive grandparent to me. Her love and support allowed me to flourish as a cook and as a person.

After searching for recipes that would be perfect for the occasion I came up with a menu: roasted bell peppers stuffed with savory rice, oven roasted chicken marinated in 40 cloves of garlic and basted with an apricot mustard sauce, cheesy jalapeño cornbread and great-grandmother Peggy’s pound cake for dessert. Dinner was a hit!

This Sunday evening, as I sit in my Italian kitchen 4,000 miles away, I’m reminded of the strength, love, friendship and generosity of Ms. Rosa Malloy and her wonderful family. Here’s hoping they’ll be many more Sunday dinners to share…Cheers!