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!

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.