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!

Missing my mother: two years later

The Delaware River, the spot where we spread my mother's ashes

The day my mother had open-heart surgery I was convinced she would die. As the doctor sliced her chest open, my brother Jesús and I left the hospital. We decided to shed our tears at home, privately, instead of the hospital’s cold and unwelcoming waiting room.

In the comfort of his twin bed we laid side by side, crying uncontrollably. Words were blurred as the river of pain splashed across our faces. We tried to console each other in the few seconds of freedom from our tears.

Hugging each other in that tiny bed we calculated the details: mami would be cremated. We knew this was her desire and we were ready to follow through with it.

Hours went by and we nervously made our way to the cold waiting room. There was no one in sight. “Oh no, this is not good,” we thought. We started crying as soon as we saw the doctor.

The man in scrubs delivered the news: mami had made it, the surgery had gone well. “What?! Thank heaven!” we exclaimed at the top of our lungs, as we held each other tight.

We were led through a long corridor that connected to the intensive care unit. Peaking behind a white curtain we saw our mother.

She was sleeping on a stretcher that seemed barely big enough to hold her. Wrapped tightly in white blankets, she reminded me of a newborn baby. Atop her chest was a small teddy bear clutching a heart between his paws.

“The teddy bear is for her to squeeze when she coughs,” the nurse said, explaining that it was important that the stitches along my mother’s chest didn’t come undone.

It took months for my mother to recuperate but she did it like the champion she always was.

My mother lived for seven more years. The day we lost her, none of us were prepared. But we followed the plan accordingly: she was cremated.

Her ashes were scattered in the Delaware River one lonely spring afternoon two years ago. I envision her remains traveling through the river and into the Atlantic Ocean, freely navigating the waters of the world eventually reaching every continent.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her blond hair, green eyes, and her beautiful freckled faced adorned with a perfect smile. She was and continues to be my inspiration.

Gracias mami por todo lo que me diste y enseñaste. Te amaré y recordaré por siempre. Bendición!

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.