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...

Belgian waffles and the Jersey Shore

The heat from the waffle iron is so strong you can smell it throughout the house. It is my cue for pouring the banana-nut batter hot into its sizzling heat. As I drop every ladle of batter into the iron my mind fogs with memories from winters long ago.

I am transported to Long Beach Island in New Jersey, a strip of beach towns that is the epicenter of Jersey Shore living during hot summer days. LBI, as it is known to locals, is formed of little beach towns that have amazing restaurants.

Ironically, winter was my favorite time to enjoy an escape to LBI when I lived in New Jersey. Cold days assured no crowds, no traffic and a lot of privacy.

Winter days offered the perfect contrast to the warm coffee sold at Uncle Will’s Pancake House. Located in the little town of Beach Haven, the restaurant offers the best breakfast in town.

Huge Belgian waffles topped with a mountain of whipped cream arrive at your table as your eyes try to adjust to the size of your breakfast. I found it nearly impossible to finish any waffle I ever ordered.

If you are ever in town, make sure you stop at Uncle Will’s Pancake House. You are guaranteed a filling breakfast and a great cup of coffee.

Pani puri and the chaat God

I dreamt I was eating pani puri last night. Upon awakening, I was instantly transported to the Indian town of Thane, a suburb of Mumbai that is the hometown of my Indian family.

On a warm and humid night in Thane last month, I found myself in the company of a very gracious married couple and their newborn daughter. The husband has known my Indian family his whole life and welcomed us by taking us to his favorite "chaat" restaurant.

"Chaats" are  Indian street snacks. They are cheap, delicious and available on any steet corner. 

As we made our way through the crowded streets I could see the line that formed from the restaurant to the sidewalk. People of all ages were standing in line. The restaurant had indoor and outdoor seating but it was too crowded inside.

While the men in our group went to purchase the chaats, us ladies tried to secure a seat on the ledge of a small wall that separated the restaurant from the sidewalk.

Moments later the men showed up with a plate of chaats on each hand and a bunch of forks. We each grabbed a fork and ate from the same plate. All the chaats were crunchy, spicy and creamy. Just delicious!

My absolute favorite snack that evening was pani puri.

Essentially, pani puri is made up of thin deep-fried wafers that are cracked and stuffed with a filling of chickpea, potatoes, cilantro and spices. Each individual stuffed wafer is immersed in two spicy broths, one green, the other brown like tamarind. The broths are at room temperature and vary in degrees of spicyness. “Puri” is the name of the deep fried wafer, and “pani” refers to the flavored water.

Pani puri is eaten in rounds. You are handed a small bowl and only one snack at a time. You eat one while holding it over the bowl and letting the spicy broth drip into it. Once you are done with the five or six rounds (depending on who is selling it) you sip the spicy water from the bowl. Mmmmm….

You are supposed to eat pani puri like sushi, all in one mouthful. This always seems to be an impossible task for me. I have a hard time chewing the whole piece so I end up feeling self-conscious about having my cheeks protrude with so much food in them.

This makes my Indian brother laugh every time. He loves challenging me to eat a whole pani puri in one big mouthful. Usually, I nearly choke while attempting this feat. I hold a napkin over my mouth in an attempt of seeming more ladylike. Somehow I don’t think my tactics help.

The night we had pani puri in Thane, I noticed the wife of our gracious host asked the vendor to please give me the smallest puris. She did not know I noticed but her kindness warmed my heart. Now that I was armed with small puris I was sure I could stand up to the challenge of eating them in one mouthful.

With my Indian brother edging me on I stuffed each puri in my mouth and ate each one the “proper” way. As he poked fun at me, I tried not to choke on each puri and make a fool out of myself in front of all these strangers who seemingly had no problem managing such a large mouthful of food.

As I was sipping the spicy water from my bowl after successfully eating my round of pani puri, my Indian brother pointed to an old poster glued to a cement wall.

The longed-haired man in the poster had a beard and was dressed in a white tunic. He looked like a religious leader.

“You see that man? He’s the chaat God. You made him proud!,” he joked.

There’s no such thing as a chaat God but I found it so hilarious I couldn't stop laughing. Since then we have pretended he exists.

Someday I will master the technique of eating pani puri gracefully without requiring the Hemlich maneuver. Only then will I know I made the chaat God proud!

HERE'S A VIDEO DISPLAYING HOW TO PROPERLY EAT PANI PURI

Family warmth: "You're gonna miss this"

Tucson, Arizona

Old salsa music is blasting in the background. Tiny hands are tangled up in mine. Tonight there are no nightclubs or bars for me. On this Saturday night I belong to my 4-year old niece. She has chosen to interrupt my dishwashing and invite me to dance in the living room. How could I refuse?

As we twirl around dancing, her blue eyes light up and laughter fills the room. The warmth of her palms stretches from my hands to my heart. This is happiness.

The classic salsa songs remind me of my childhood. I picture myself as a 6-year old dancing in my parents' living room singing at the top of my lungs. I could chose to feel sad everytime I remember my mother but right now I am focusing on those beautiful memories. I feel so fortunate I am able to dance these songs with my niece.

My sweet blue-eyed angel snaps me back to reality.

“Auntie Rose, lift me,” she says through her giggles. 

Those words are enough to inspire my best Dirty Dancing imitation. She runs to me and I lift my princess up in the air as we spin round and round. I love being silly Auntie Rose J

Salsa gives way to country music and we two-step. Before I notice, my brother and his 2-year old son join us. We all hold hands and dance, our legs moving in funny directions.

My beautiful and very pregnant sister-in-law finally joins us and we dance together as a family in the midst of crayons and toys. I savor every moment because I know I will be leaving for Italy in a few short weeks and I will miss my family dearly.

Then Trace Atkins’ “You’re Gonna Miss This” comes on. This is an emotional song about growing up fast then wishing we could turn back time. 

As the song plays, my brother tightly embraces his daughter as they slow dance. My sister-in-law and I are sitting on the couch. She's holding her baby boy to her chest and kissing his head lightly. My hands slowly find their way to her arms and we hold each other.

Every one of us adults is softly weeping as we meditate upon life: the kids grow up so quickly, I’m leaving for a year, and we will never get back the time that has passed.

As I caress my sister-in-law’s belly, the tiny baby inside her kicks. We smile at each other as we feel the slight flutter of her legs.

This is family life and it fills my heart with the deepest of joys. Amen!