stories

Dec

28

The Sound of Music

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This post has nothing to do with food and everything to do with Doña Lupe’s Kitchen.

It’s about The Sound of Music.

You know, that movie with Julie Andrews as a singing nun who falls in love, gets married to a guy with a ton of singing kids and then escapes from Nazi Germany?  That movie.

Why is it so important to DLK?

I’ll tell you…

I don’t remember my Grandma Lupe doing ANYTHING for herself.  EVER.  She devoted her life to her family, her God and religion.  She gave back to her community.  She rallied the Guadalupanas at her church into providing a communion dress for a poor girl in the area.  She baked bread for the church bake sales, cleaned the church, and gave, gave, gave.  Never once did I ever see her do anything that wasn’t completely selfless, except for the occasional moment she took out in the patio to eat an orange.

She never just sat still.  Always there was needlework in her hands, she was embroidering pillow cases for someone, edging towels with crocheted lace, making baby blankets even while watching T.V.  I don’t remember her ever just doing something because it was FUN.

Til the Sound of Music.

My grandmother had a library of Catholic books in her home.  You know, things like the Lives of Saints, the Bible and not much else except for the books by Marie Killelea ( a Catholic author who wrote about her daughter Karen’s cerebral palsy and faith) and The Sound of Music.  My grandmother LOVED the story of the Von Trapp family and I think, in some way found it related somewhat to her own life.  She, like Maria Von Trapp, had wanted to become a nun and instead married.

She loved the message of the book. She loved that Maria Von Trapp had chosen duty – serving God even though she wouldn’t become the nun she’d thought she’d be.  She loved the faith of the family and that they prayed often, had their own chapel built on their property when they finally settled.  She loved the book.

I found the book because I was desperate.  I was and am an avid, hungry reader.  I’d already been through the Lives of Saints and had read about Saint Maria Goretti’s stabbing like 900 times.  There was nothing else and then I found it, this little book.  Grabbing an apple and heading out to the patio, I buried myself in the lives of the Trapp Family Singers for a couple of hours.  I fell in love with the book too, not for religious reasons, but because it was an adventure.  That same summer that I’d found the book, the movie came out and my grandmother decided we’d all go see it.

I take my grandkids to the movies all the time, no big deal.  MY GRANDMOTHER GOING TO A MOVIE WAS AS IF THE WORLD HAD STOOD ON END AND TIPPED US ALL OFF IT!

IT WAS HUGE!

She didn’t go to movies.  She didn’t do fun stuff.  She went to markets, J.C. Penny’s to get sensible underwear and pajamas for us.  She didn’t go to movies!

It was the one and only time I ever sat in a movie theater with my grandmother.  We laughed, we cried, we had a good time.  We went home and talked about the movie for days.

To this day, when I see the movie on television, I think of my grandmother and miss her.

It was on this Christmas Day.  “Merry Christmas in heaven Grandma”, I whispered as I saw the opening credits.  I watched the movie and remembered my Grandma.

 

Dec

07

The Nacimiento

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Adoration of the Magi by Gentile da Fabriano

During the Christmas season, there was lots of hustle and bustle at the creaky old house on Goodwin Avenue.  All of us loved the season, but my very religious grandparents loved it most of all.  For us kids, it meant presents; good food; a break from school; getting to live at that house for the whole school break and the excitement of the nacimiento.

Putting out the nacimiento (nativity scene) is pretty standard in Latino Catholic households.  My grandparents really did it up.  Every year, my Papa Chava would prepare for it.  He had built a manger with branches from the trees outside and as it made its way up from the basement, he would check it carefully for loose nails, splintering or boughs that needed replacing.  He’d take it into his workshop in el garaje (the garage) to make any needed repairs.  Once it was fixed, he’d bring it and and set it down lovingly on the table that had been just as lovingly draped in a beautiful cloth by either my Auntie Jessie or my grandmother. Once the hand-crafted manger was set up, my Papa would go back outside and get up on his ladder.  He’d cut down boughs of sweet smelling pine and use them to cover the top of the manger’s roof.  The Baby Jesus needed a strong roof after all.

I often had the honor of going down to the basement with my Auntie Jessie and digging through all the goodies there to find the boxes of carefully packed nativity figurines.  Some of these were incredibly beautiful.  The Baby Jesus was life size and gorgeous.  He was made in Italy sometime in the 1940′s and his glass eyes and little teeth were so very realistic.  I loved that figurine.  Mary and Joseph were equally beautiful and the Reyes Magos (Three Kings) were stunningly attired and regal.  The hand-painted detail of these figurines was stunning.  They all looked as if they had walked right out of a painting by Da Vinci or Carraveggio.

The animals too, were realistic and beautifully painted.  Cows, donkey, camels, the elephant one of the Tres Magos rode in on all were placed carefully within and around the manger.  A star was placed on top to replicate the Star of Bethlehem and my grandfather had rigged it so that it lit up when we turned it on at night.  Everything waited in the manger for the Christ Child to be born, even the little cradle with it’s handmade, incredibly soft blankets made by my Aunt Jessie and Grandmother.

Some years, Auntie Jessie would make the Baby Jesus a new gown of baby blue satin, edge in gold lace or trim.  He was a kingly child after all.

The anticipation grew each day as we watched the tree filling up with presents and the nacimiento still empty.  Finally, the night of Noche Buena (the good night) would come and off we would go to midnight mass at the little parish church, Cristo Rey on Perlita Street.  At communion, wine would be given with the host and we kids would feel VERY important and grown up with that sip of wine to wash away the wafer thin host.

The short walk home was exciting too, if cold but we were well bundled up by my Grandma Lupe so it wasn’t ever too bad.  When we got home, hot champurrado would be waiting on the stove and the Baby Jesus would be “born”; placed in his cradle by either of my grandparents.  We would line up to greet him, each of placing a gentle kiss on his forehead to welcome him to the world.

We’d had our champurrado and maybe empanadas or pan then be bundled off to bed to wait excitedly for Santa Claus and Christmas Day.

I don’t know what happened to my grandparent’s nativity scene, since lots of things disappeared after they died, so I don’t have pictures of it.  There is a Baby Jesus almost like it here http://nicholasandsteele.blogspot.com/2010/10/this-n-that.html but our Baby Jesus was laughing and you could see his little teeth.  He was a much happier baby.

 

Dec

04

In Praise of Sinigang

soup / stories  Posted by / 1 comments

Mmmmm…..

Sinigang.

What’s that you say?  Sinigang?  What is that?

Sinigang is a traditional Filipino tamarind-based soup that my grandchildren’s other Grandmother,  Annabel makes.  The base is made of tamarind, fish sauce, meat and tomatoes with vegetables and sometimes peppers added.  The first time I had it, I fell in love with it.  The flavor of that tangy, delicious soup haunted me and made my mouth water every time I thought of it.

Annabel knows its my favorite and so she makes it for me often.  Whenever I ask her how to make it, she says, “Just meat and vegetables” in that typically modest way of hers.  She doesn’t think she’s a good cook when in fact, she’s really an incredible one.  In some ways, she reminds me of my Grandma Lupe.  Like my grandmother, she tosses in a little of this and a little of that to make magic in a bowl or plate.  She shows her love and care for the people close to her by feeding them, another Dona Lupe trait.  Also like my grandmother, Annabel is overly modest about her abilities.

One of her specialities is her soup.  Annabel makes soups that will make angels weep, they are so good.  There’s always something simmering on the stove that smells amazing and nine times out of ten, one of those pots is full of some kind of yummy soup.  The queen of them all though, is sinigang, my personal favorite.  My Latina palate loves all things spicy and tangy so it’s no big surprise that this is my favorite Filipino dish.

Annabel uses a tamarind base by Knorr though she’s told me that given time, she’d make it with fresh tamarind pods.  Since the grandkids are still young and their palate’s not quite so developed, she omits the finger-length green hot peppers that traditionally are part of the dish.  I’ve had it with those, and it brings a spicy heat to the soup that is delicious, but I agree with her to not include it when the kids are wanting soup.  We don’t want to turn them off of a delicious thing just because its too spicy.

I spent last night at the grandkids’ apartment and had arrived sniffling.  With the recent high winds all over Los Angeles, I either had a bad case of allergies, or the beginning of a cold.  Either way my nose is red and raw.  Annabel took one look at me and said, “You need soup” as she poured my coffee.  Settled in with the grandkids later, I fell asleep and woke to the scent of tamarind.  “Sinigang”, I thought, “she’s making sinigang” and jumped out of bed to watch her make it.  Sadly, she was already done and serving it into a bowl with steamed rice.  “Gina, eat soup.  I made your favorite, sinigang.”  Yes, I am a lucky woman to have this blended family that loves me. Well, she didn’t have to tell me twice.  Jasmine popped her head out from the covers and said, “I smell sinigang.”  It didn’t take her long to slide down from the top bunk and tumble into the small kitchen.

We sat at the table with steaming bowls of tamarind-scented soup, and I watched the grandkids smiling as they dug in.  Annabel was hovering over Aiden, chopping up his meat in small bite-sized pieces and I found myself turning Jasmine’s bowl in just such a way so she wouldn’t spill her rice over.  The wind howled a little outside as we ate our tangy, tomatoey broth with vegetables, meat and rice.  Warm in my belly, the soup soothed, kept my sneezing at bay and I had made sure to snap a photo  before demolishing it.

Annabel promises to show me how to make it.  She often changes up the vegetables in it, depending on what’s available in her fridge.  Today the veggies included radishes, baby bok choy, asparagus and tomatoes.  I’ve told her I’m going to video the whole process so that the grandkids we share have it always.  It’s as much their legacy as my grandmother’s recipes are, and most definitely belongs here in Doña Lupe’s Kitchen.

Nov

26

The Guayaba Trees

Garden / history / stories  Posted by / 0 comments

Far in the back of the house on Goodwin Avenue was a garden. Well, there were several gardens in that house, but the one to the very back of the property; past the patio and the garage was the vegetable garden. That garden belonged to my Papa (grandfather). There were nopales (cactus) growing against the back wall of the white-painted garage; a membrillo (quince) tree that I had planted with him when I was about two years old; a lemon tree that always seemed full of big, juicy fruit; and two guayaba (guava) trees. There was cilantro, chiles, strawberries, chives, and tomatoes growing in neat rows in one patch and a stand of tall caña a (sugar cane) and corn growing against the back fence that sheltered us from the witch’s house. Really, she was just a mean and nasty old lady who yelled at us over the fence. I have no idea why everyone in the neighborhood called her the witch, but she scared the crap out of all of us.

I loved that garden with it’s strange, but efficient irrigation system of old MJB glass coffee jars that routed the water from the hose neatly down each row. I loved my grandfather’s ingenuity. Two old and re-purposed broom sticks leaned against the lemon tree. My grandfather had attached the curve part of a wire hanger to them and those handy hooks on a stick would bring the highest lemons, tumbling into my basket or apron with just a single twist and pull. Most of all, I loved the guayaba trees.

My grandfather once told me he brought the seedlings of those trees from Mexico many years before. I believed him. I believe he nourished those seedlings with all the love and care he gave everything in that garden. Those trees to me, were a symbol of his love and devotion and I knew he would care for me and keep me safe just as he had those trees all those years ago.

Come the end of September and through the beginning of December those two trees would produce a wealth of delicious guayabas. They smelled musky and the white kids on the school bus would laugh at my full bags of fruit on the bus because they said they smelled like underarms. I didn’t care, through my face burned hotly at their cruel comments. I loved them. The guayabas tasted of my grandparent’s house and love. They were soft, sweet and delicious and I loved the little round ball of edible seeds. There’s nothing like the taste of guayabas and for me, they say Autumn in the way falling leaves do for other people.

I loved bringing in bowls full of the yellow fruit to my grandmother. What we didn’t gobble up fresh off the tree was made into cajeta, ate de guayaba that was later used for empanadas, ponche navideño, and even once, a very pink cake that caused my Aunt Jessie and I so much work to strain the seeds so they didn’t fill the batter. I loved walking into the kitchen and smelling the guayabas ripening in bowls around it. The two trees themselves reminded me of a favorite song of my grandmother’s by Pedro Infante Dos Arbolitos, a song about two trees.

When my mother inherited the house, she let the gardens die including the two trees my grandfather devoted a big chunk of his life to caring for. When I heard from a nephew that the trees had been chopped down, it felt like my grandparents had died all over again.

Every time I see or taste a guayaba, I am transported to that garden that will live on in my memories forever. In that garden, the trees are entwined and represent my Papa and Grandma.

Nov

23

The Children’s Table

Holidays / stories  Posted by / 3 comments

Thanksgiving. Christmas. Easter.

On the big holidays, my grandparents’ house was full of people. Aunts, uncles, cousins, relatives from Mexico or Piru, random comadres and compadres from who knew where. They filled the house. Kids ran all over the place and as the smells of a holiday feast got stronger and stronger, the children’s tables were set up.

For us, it was card tables; those remnants from the 1950s when people would have card games and vist. Kind of like an antiquated version of a Facebook Mafia game. The dusty card tables would be pulled from some corner in the basement, the folded metal legs would come out, someone would wipe it down and bam, there’d be a kid’s table. The card tables were set up around the house with little chairs also pulled up from the cold basement, another remnant from the Cold War era when everyone built bomb shelters in their homes. I loved that basement.

At the children’s tables, places would be set. Napkins laid out, the right silverware lined up neatly. We didn’t get to use the good china or the pretty, amber bubbled glass stemware. We got the brightly colored metal glasses or plastic. Our table had a cloth laid, but it was no where near as fancy as the hand tatted lace one or the hand-embroidered one that had taken my grandmother over a year to make, her stitches so fine that not a knot could you see. Even covered with the protective clear cloth made of plastic that went over it, those beautiful tablecloths did not belong on the children’s table. We got linen, white and snowy; freshly laundered and thick enough to absorb our messes. We felt quite grand though, even at the kid’s table and much in the spirit of the holiday.

The beautiful food made it to the grown-up table, where the adults got to sit. On that beautiful table, in pride of place would be the turkey or ham, beautiful garnished. Thanksgiving was turkey, Easter and Christmas was ham. Surrounding the gorgeous meat were all the beautiful dishes filled with wonders. Cut glass bowls of beautiful salads, jello molds, huge bowls of shiny, still wrapped baked potatoes, another bowl of creamy mashed ones, casserole dishes of yams topped with marshmallows, stuffing, and on and on. It was a beautiful bounty. The pies and desserts were still in the kitchen.

At the children’s table, we got sliced and scooped versions of all the stunning food. Plates piled high with slices of white and dark meat, small bowls with the accompaniments. Our glasses were filled with punch by an adult and then we were left to be on our own. Our conversation mimicked the ones going on at the adult table, or so we thought. We thought ourselves to knowledgeable and conversant. Maybe we were. Sometimes, as children are wont to do, we eavesdropped on the bilingually chattering adults, hoping to catch a gem of a curse word or a hint of a scandal. The kind of thing that usually made for hushed tones and anxious looks to our table. We never really put it together though, but all the same, we felt that delicious shiver of knowing something was secret.

Eventually, we graduated to the grown-up table and took our places. We found it was much more fun at the kid’s table and no where near as glamorous. If we were grown up enough to sit there, then we’d been working in the kitchen and around the house all day non-stop. We sat there tired,worn and hungry but still hostess enough to hop up every time someone needed something.

I miss the children’s table of my youth. I never did that with my children. From the beginning they sat with the grownups. I wanted them near me and now I wonder if I did them a service or disservice by denying them the children’s table.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Oct

17

Thanksgiving Memories

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Thanksgiving is right around the corner and this time of year always makes me think of my Grandma Lupe and the excitement of cooking a holiday dinner.  Nothing was better than Thanksgiving at Grandma and Papa’s house.

We’d arrive a few days or the day before depending on school, etc.  Either my Uncle Adam would go pick us up in his VW Van or my Papa would take the three buses from Atwater Village/Glendale to where we lived in Bell-Cudahy (yeah that city that was in the news recently for fraud).  I’d usually go with my Papa on the bus which was always an adventure and probably the reason I love bus rides even now.  In the van on the freeway, the sight of the green hills near Griffith Park always did and still sing to me “Grandma’s house.”

If coming by bus, we’d get out of the bus at San Fernando Road and walk across the tracks to Goodwin Avenue.  You can’t do that now because of the Metrolink.  There used to be an old Tiki House with a HUGE elephant with a little Indian boy sitting on it outside of the shop.  They sold things like sea shells and other stuff.  Though what sea shells had to do with India, I have no idea.  Still, it was a dusty and magical place and I’d always gawk at the elephant while holding Papa’s calloused hand.  For me, that elephant and the boy seemed out of a storybook, firmly proving to me that my grandparent’s house was a magical place in another world altogether apart from the reality of my life.

My Grandma would be waiting with a hug.  Those hugs always said “home” to me.  Then the tantalizing smells coming out of the kitchen would drive me nuts till I got to sit down and eat something delicious.  Sometimes my Uncle Kiki would be there and we’d spend time coloring. He showed me how to use a Kleenex to brush away some of the color and make the page look more polished.  Both he and my mother were the artists in the family.  Auntie Jessie would sew clothes for my Barbies and she’d always have a fun surprise for me.

Thanksgiving morning we’d get up and the excitement would be literally vibrating off the walls.  All the women were there.  My mother, her sisters, my cousins.  There’d be uncles and aunts and sometimes relatives we didn’t know from Piru come down for the day.  The big dining table would be set with the beautiful dishes from the special occasion cabinet.  Glassware would be out and card tables set up for us kids.

The smell of turkey would permeate the air mixed with the spicy scent of pumpkin pies (empanadas too!) and the sweeter, softer and yeasty smell of Grandma’s famous pan.  Butter would be melting and I’d watch fascinated, as someone would pour it into sour cream then add finely chopped chives from the garden to it for the baked potatoes that I’d helped make.  That was a kid job.  My sisters, cousins and I would wrap scrubbed potatoes into foil and poke them with forks.  We LOVED that job.  To this day, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives are one of my favorite comfort foods and the sight of aluminum foil wrapped spuds make me smile.

By the time the big turkey was done, us kids would be nearly out of our minds with impatience, but we still had to wait.  Food had to be brought to tables, Grace needed to be said.  Finally, we could eat!

My grandmother used to make this amazing punch no one seems to have the recipe to anymore.  The taste of it haunts me. My Aunt Lupita remembers it had canned cherries in it and someone else remembers it had grape juice.  Whatever it was, it was delicious, refreshing and she only made it for very special occasions.

The best part of all about Thanksgiving was being with family.  It was loud, loving, boisterous and fun.  Watching my grandfather or one of my uncles carve a turkey was an adventure as was the seemingly never-ending procession of plates coming out of the kitchen.  I still overdo the dishes on Thanksgiving and make far too much food.  I cook like there’s still all those people in the house full of wonder on Goodwin Avenue even if my table is set for just a few now.

I created this post as part of Frigidaire’s Talk Turkey Campaign.  Share your own recipes and tips at Frigidaire’s Make Time for Change site.  For every recipe or tip that’s shared, Frigidaire will donate $1 to Save the Children’s U.S. Programs, which creates lasting change for children in need.

Jul

16

Ewww Cactus!

family recipes / main dishes / stories  Posted by / 0 comments

Nopales con tortas de camaron

Ewwwwwwww cactus!

Is that what you are thinking?  It’s a reaction I get often when I speak longingly of cactus in salads, or in scrambled eggs, or in red mole sauce with pork or, one of my favorites; nopales con tortas de camaron.  Go ahead and think ewww, that leaves more delicious nopales (cactus) for me.

Growing up, nopales were an almost daily part of my meals as were beans and rice.  My grandfather, Papa was very proud of his towering nopale plants that stood in his back garden against the garage wall.  The sun hit strong there and the nopales grew and grew.  I loved going out back with him, both of us armed with pinsas (tongs), a long knife and a plastic bag.  Papa showed me how to slice carefully at an angle so a new cactus paddle would grow in place of the one I cut.  I’d pinch one end with the tongs and carefully slice then drop it gingerly into my bag.  Often, he’d let one or two fall to the floor and when I looked up at him, he’d say in that raspy voice of his “Para que crescen mas.”  So that more could grow.  That’s all it took, you’d drop a cactus paddle into the dry earth and before you knew it, a cactus plant was born and competing with its brothers for the sun against the pale, wooden garage wall.

Once we had our ration of nopales we’d take them to my grandma and then more fun would start.  She’d carefully lay out cut open paper bags on the old patio table outside and bring out her sharpest knives.  Papa would look at them critically, occasionally taking out his sharpening stone and working on them till they met his high standards.  Grandma would smile that special smile she kept just for him when he handed her the newly sharpened knife and get to work.  She’d hand me a small knife and a cactus paddle with the biggest thorns to remove (bigger is easier, those small ones will get you), so that I could learn the fine art of removing thorns from cactus.  It IS an art form.  Have you ever seen a Latina woman remove thorns from cactus?  It’s fast, intense and they never get stuck.  My grandmother could have a pile of those cleaned in no time, while I struggled with my one paddle.  Eventually, I learned and got good at it but nowhere near my grandmother’s artistry.

Once they were stripped of thorns, my grandmother washed the nopales and put them into a large pan of water with a whole quartered onion and brought them to a rolling boil till they were just tender and had changed color.  She’d let them cool, then drain and rinse with cold water.  For days afterwards we’d have them scrambled into eggs for breakfast, in salad if it were summertime and sometimes she’d make her delicious red chile sauce and serve them with crispy bits of pork.

Now, I cheat.  I buy them peeled and diced whenever I can, but on those rare days that I have time and am missing my grandmother, I take out my sharpest knife, lay out some paper bags and get to work.

Here’s my recipe for Nopales con Tortas de Camaron (Cactus with Shrimp Cakes)

About 2 cups of diced nopales, cooked

1 oz. Chile California

1 bay leaf

2 tbsp. Knorr Pollo

Water or chicken broth

3 tbsps. Flour (you can add more or less depending on how thick you like it)

1 oz. Shrimp powder

2 egg whites

2 egg yolks

Cooking oil

Drain the cooked nopales and set aside.

In a heavy frying pan or sauce pan, brown the flour, whisking to make sure it doesn’t burn.  Add the bay leaf and chile California when the flour is nicely browned.  Keep whisking adding in hot water or chicken broth till you have a nice gravy-like consistency.  Add Knorr pollo to taste and let simmer, whisking occasionally for about ten minutes.  If it gets too thick, add a little more broth or water.

Turn off the heat and set aside, covered.

In a large frying pan, add oil about half way up and heat on medium flame.

In a mixing bowl whisk two egg whites until stiff.  Think meringue.  When stiff peaks form, slowly whisk in the egg yolks one at a time.  Shake in the shrimp power while still whisking little by little. If you do it all at once, your batter will go flat.

With a spoon, scoop up tablespoon sized dollops of the batter and carefully slide into the hot oil.  They will puff up quickly so only do a few at a time.  Taking a spatula or slotted spoon, turn them over once and let brown.  Scoop out and drain on paper towels or brown paper bags.  They will flatten a bit so don’t freak if they do.

Once they are all done, stir the nopales into the chile sauce and heat for about 8 minutes.  One by one add the shrimp tortas into the nopale mixture then serve.  If you have a greedy son named Phillip, watch those tortas because they WILL disappear off the paper where they are draining long before you can get them into the chile.  This is where a good smack on the hand or a chancletaso comes in handy, although at twenty-nine he’d still rather get his hand smacked than miss an opportunity to filch tortas from the plate.

Serve with rice, beans and freshly made tortillas.

Jul

15

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

stories  Posted by / 0 comments

This isn’t a post about food.

This is a post about love.

I am the grandchild of immigrants.  My mother’s parents were Mexican and my father’s were a motley mix of Irish, English and Dutch Jew.  In Azteca/Mexica tradition it is believed that we stand upon the shoulders of our ancestors and I stand firmly on a strong foundation.

Here’s what I know.

My grandfather Chava, Salvador Medina Camarillo came to the U.S. sometime around 1915 for the first time.  He was either fourteen or fifteen years old, being born on June 1, 1900.  The Mexican Revolution was tearing up Mexico and one of the bloodiest battles was not too far from my grandfather’s little town in Guanajuato.  Family stories tell me that he was born in Michoacan but the family moved to Irapuato, Guanajuato when he was still a small child.  I know little of his young life, except that he went out in the fields to work with his father when he was only three years old.  He made two centavos and used one to buy a cooking pot for his mother and the other centavo he gave to her.  That character, that loving generosity was to become the trademark of the man he became.

In any case, my grandfather arrived in the United States seeking what most sought at the time; refuge from war and hunger – a better life.  He often told me stories of finding himself in Vegas hungry with no money, told me about working in Cheecago (Chicago), shuttling back and forth to Mexico and traveling with the pisca (harvest) living the life of a migrant farmworker.  He was thirty-five years old or so when he met my grandmother Lupe and she was 15 years his junior.  That meeting changed both their lives and will have to be told in another post.

My grandmother Lupe was born here, the baby in a large family.  She was born on the way from Mexico to here.  The story is that my great-grandfather and great-uncles were here in the U.S. working in the fields while my great-grandmother Teresa waited in Abasolo, Guajuato their home.  Now the Gonzalez’ were mixed blood – indigenous Otomi and Spanish blood.  Some of them were pale-skinned and freckled with red hair and green eyes and the rest were dark brown, with straight black hair and high cheekbones.  My Tia Andrea, the oldest was said to be a startling beauty with long, curly red hair past her waist, sparkling green eyes and skin so pale she could have been a Romance novelist’s dream.  At the time my great-grandfather Florentino was in Ventura County picking oranges, she was sixteen years old and Pancho Villa was heading into town.  My very religious great-grandmother had heard the stories about Villa, how he loved women and stole them.  No way was his army or him getting his hands on Andrea or any of the other daughters.

The family story (doesn’t every Mexican family have a story of Pancho Villa?) is that my great-grandmother Teresita tried to get word to her husband that she needed to get out of Mexico and now.  No word arrived from him.  There wasn’t internet or phones and mail sure as hell wasn’t reliable in a war-torn Mexico.  Determined, she decided to go on foot with her daughters, the youngest boy left at home and her pregnant belly.  She got out just in time and walked herself and those children through God only knows what till she got to Ciudad Juarez where she ran completely out of money and time.  Pancho Villa had arrived in Juarez.

Great-grandmother Teresa hid her girls I’m not sure where, but she hid them and hid them good.  She put on a rebozo (shawl), rubbed her face with dirt and bent herself up like a very old woman.  Taking her youngest boy, she went to face El General himself.  She told him she was trapped in Juarez and needed to get to her husband.

Word is that she cried up a storm and it moved him.  He gave her money and gold earrings for her and her little boy to get to her husband.  Under cover of night, she slipped away with her girls, her young son and made it to her husband in Ventura County somehow.  I don’t know how much of this story is true and how much is exaggerated.  I do know that those earrings exist in my family and have passed down through the years.  My Tia Luz had them till she gave them to one of her granddaughters, my cousin who wears them proudly.  What is true is that this amazing woman, these incredibly brave people who were my family crossed miles and mountains through starvation and danger to give me a better life.

My grandmother Lupe was born here, an American citizen.  My grandfather never became a citizen because his birth records were burned in the war.  He had a green card and permanent resident status till the day he died.

Where would I be today if they hadn’t come here?  There wasn’t a day that went by that they didn’t tell me how lucky I was to be born here, an American.  They were proud to contribute to this country

Here’s the thing, my Irish grandfather Cecil crossed over to make a better life for himself too as did my great-grandfather Cornelius Losey who came over to Michigan from Holland.  They are seen as brave, as heros, immigrants who made this country what it is today, while my brown grandparents and great-grandparents who did the same exact thing are vilified.  Why?  What’s the difference?

No one being human, is illegal.  I stand upon the shoulders of my ancestors and they were giants. Soy orgullosa de tener sangre Mexicana.

Jun

19

Father’s Day Memories

stories  Posted by / 0 comments

My grandfather, Salvador Medina Camarillo was the strongest father influence in my young life.  My parents were divorced and I rarely saw my father – the divorce was bitter and combative.  Eventually, the other grandparents faded into the background because to my mother, they were sources of great evil, having given my father life.  Hey, I said it was a bad divorce, si?  It fell to my maternal grandparents to step in and do the best they could to raise us in the middle of a family war.

I spent a lot of time at my grandparents house, every weekend, school vacation, summers…all were spent in the creaky old house on Goodwin Avenue with all the gardens.  My time inside was devoted to my grandmother Lupe and her magical kitchen, but outside I spent my time with my Papa Chava (my grandfather).  Papa had tons of wonders in his domain hay afuera.  He had a dusty workshop in the garage/el garaje.  There were jars of every kind of nail, tools, circular saws, gardening equipment, big MJB coffee cans full of canicas (marbles).  He loved to carve things and often sat out on the patio carving stone monkeys.  Sometimes he’d take cherry pits and carve those too and hand them to me, while I played with the big can of marbles.

Papa made cutting boards for my grandmother.  He’d use his machine saw thingy and make it in the shape of a pig.  I loved those pig-shaped cutting boards.  They were comforting, homey and showed his love.  He had this ingenious irrigation system in his garden too.  He’d rigged all these old glass coffee jars (the original eco-recycler) within the rows of vegetables and chiles and place the hose in one of the jars.  The water would flow and work its way around the rows through the jars of water and everything would be irrigated evenly.  My job was to walk around and make sure all the jars were placed just so so that there was no damming of the water.

For picking lemons or guayabas up high on his fruit trees he’d fastened the hook of an old wire hanger into an old broomstick, taking time to carefully drill a hole, add the hook and cement it in, then wrapping it with duct tape.  With those re-purposed broomsticks you could reach the highest fruit, wrap the hook around it, twist and it fell into a basket easily.  I loved doing that.

Once, when all the family was together making tamales and my grandmother wasn’t satisfied that the masa was beaten enough, he got together with some of my bis-tios (great uncles) and managed to attach something to one of his power drills that became a powerful beater for those huge buckets of masa.  The smile on my grandmother’s face lit the room and I knew then why she loved him so.  He was a miracle man, a problem solver and someone you could count on no matter what.

On quiet days, he’d play cards.  Lay out solitaire on the big dining table.  Piramidas or pyramids and other games I learned watching him.  He’d talk to me sometimes about his life before meeting my grandmother.  How he left Mexico during the Revolution (he was born in 1900).  He’d told me he’d been to Chicago and worked hard in the stockyards there.  He once told me he was stuck in Vegas (before it was even the Bunny Seigel Vegas – just some beat up old places with one armed bandits) was hungry, broke and desperate for work.  He sat for hours with his belly gnawing at him watching people play the one armed bandit slot machines and noticed a pattern.  After someone played for a certain amount of time, they’d leave disgusted and someone else would sit there and hit the jackpot after a few tries.  He realized that they gave out money when they were full.  He dug deep and found a few nickels or pennies, I don’t remember which and watched the machines.  Sure enough someone got up and left.  Taking his few coins, he slid one in and didn’t win.  On the second try he did.  He got something to eat and then stayed watching and won a few more rounds.  He then had enough money to make his way back to wherever he needed to get.  That’s the type of man he was: diligent, patient, watchful and smart.  I like to think he passed some of that on to me.  I know I have his persistence and determination.

My grandfather died in 1986 after a long bout with cancer and the loss of his beloved wife two years before.  He’d been battling cancer since the ’60s and being the man he was, he never complained.  I miss him every day and I wish he had been here longer to teach my boys about his incredible life.

Jun

16

The Salsa That Ate Through Tupperware

salsa / stories  Posted by / 0 comments

Albert - He likes his salsa HOT.

This post may kill you…just kidding.

My boys love salsa.  Red, green, black, corn salsa, mango salsa, you name it they love it but when it comes to their favorite all three of them will tell you the same thing: “My mom’s Tupperware-eating salsa”.  They mean my salsa negra, an intoxicatingly good and rich salsa made with chile pequins and chile del arbol and yes, it once melted Tupperware.

My grandmother would occasionally make this salsa, opening all the windows in the house so that the smoke of the roasting dried chilis wouldn’t make everyone start coughing, gasping and running for the door.  Whenever she made it, it was put in a glass bowl, but I never knew why.

I made it often as my children were growing up.  It’s one of those salsas that are perfect for barbeques and long summer days.  A small scoop topping your carne asada taco, slowly dripping off that slice of avocado gives just the right piquant bite.  Salsa Negra is HOT, meant for small tastes but it is full of flavor and my boys go absolutely nuts for it.  Especially since the Tupperware incident…

One summer I couldn’t find my Pyrex bowl and I was in the midst of making Salsa Negra.  My boy Albert handed me a Tupperware bowl and not really, paying attention I took it.  I opened all the windows, put a bandana over my nose and mouth (yes I looked like the cooking bandida todo ala Joaquin Murrieta) roasted the dried chiles del arbol and pequin in big handfuls until they were blackened nicely.  Coughing, I roasted onion and cloves of garlic till they were dark and limp then got out my old molcajete.  I added sea salt to the basalt bowl, then started crushing first the garlic, then onion, and chiles while I roasted fat, juicy tomatoes on the samel comal I had previously roasted my chiles on.  When the tomatoes were done, I quickly peeled them and one by one, they went into the molcajete too.  I scraped out the contents of the bowl into the plastic bowl my son had handed me and got to carefully stripping cilantro leafs off their stems.  A ladleful of chicken broth went into the bowl and a handful of the plucked cilantro.  Then I started to stir it with my wooden spoon.  As I stirred, I started noticing what appeared to be little white threads.  WTH?  I stirred some more.  More white threads.  I picked one out.  Felt it.  It felt like plastic.  WTH?  Then I noticed the sides of the bowl had what appeared to be little scratches.  It was EATING the plastic!!

I showed my boys who marveled at it.  Needless to say, I sadly poured the salsa down the disposal and started over, this time grabbing a glass bowl.  I wondered aloud what it was doing to our stomachs, but my son Albert said, “Who cares?  That’s your best salsa and damn it eats tupperware!”

My Salsa Negra never again was called that.  Twenty years later it’s still Tupperware-eating Salsa, a thing to brag about to their Navy buddies, guys stationed with them in the Middle East, wives, etc.  Whenever they come home and I ask what they want to eat, the famous Tupperware-eating salsa is always the first thing that comes out of their mouths.

Next time I make it, I’ll post pictures.

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