family history

Sep

18

Project Food Blog Challenge #1: Who Am I?

Challenges  Posted by / 22 comments

Project Food Blog ay, ay, ay….what did I do?  Project Food Blog is a contest run by the amazing Foodbuzz social network for foodies.  When the contest first came into my email, I blindly signed up thinking, “Wow, que cool!”  PFB is a contest where Foodbuzz Featured Publishers are competing in a series of culinary blogging challenges.  The prize is $10,000 and a special feature on Foodbuzz for one year.

The competition is stiff.  1855 contestants, 1 winner.  Wow.  The first cut is brutal.  Only 400 will advance.  Intimidated?  Scared?  You bet I am.  So why am I even doing this?  One answer: To preserve a rich legacy and pass it on.

I started this blog three years ago on my birthday as not only a tribute to my beautiful, gentle grandmother who cooked like a goddess, but as a legacy to my grandchildren.  I’d had some pretty hairy health scares and illnesses which got me thinking about legacy, about what a rich culture and family history I had and how often those things fall through the cracks.  How many times had I sat in a room with family members bemoaning that certain thing my grandmother had made that we didn’t have the recipe for?  Enough times to have it worry me that what had been saved, remembered and maintained would also be lost.  My granddaughter Jasmine once asked me, “Did your grammy cook with you like you do with us?” and that was what fueled me into starting Doña Lupe’s Kitchen.

This blog isn’t just about food, though food is a constant presence.   Food is a large part of our Mexican cultural patrimony.  Doña Lupe’s is about the traditions, the love, the memories.  It’s about culture, family, music and even poetry.  Occasionally, my rather outspoken opinions about politics or random things work their way into it, but I just see it like that brightly colored sarape of my Papa Chava’s that was woven so expertly.  We Mexican’s have a saying that holds very true for me; we stand on the shoulders of our ancestors.  Doña Lupe’s Kitchen is in a way those shoulders I stand upon, the traditions and food handed down from mother to daughter, grandmother to granddaughter.  It is the  love that got me through my life, the dreams I have of a future where my grandchildren and their grandchildren all know where they came from, who their ancestors were as well as know the smells, tastes and memories that came from our collective ancestry.  This blog is far more than a food blog – it is a legacy, the one I am trying to leave.  It is my way of preserving something precious that absolutely cannot be lost.

I don’t know if I have what it takes to be the next Food Blog Star or even if I will make it past the first cut, I do know that no matter what, my grandchildren will be proud of me.  I know that my grandmother’s recipes will live on not just in my family but perhaps in yours.  Maybe they will even start new traditions in other families, other cultures.  I truly believe that food transcends borders and helps us understand each other. Project Food Blog gives my family stories and recipes a chance to be spread to a wider audience and for that, I am grateful.

This post gives you an idea of what drives me, what this blog is about but I strongly encourage you to visit the About page to get to know more about the wonderful woman who inspired it.  Wander amongst the recipes and stories and get to know me, my family and most of all the food.  Nuestra casa es tu casa.  Feel free to comment, linger, have a cafecito and a recipe or two.  You’re always welcome in my kitchen.

Voting begins on September 20th…more details to come.

Aug

07

My Grandma’s Avena (Oatmeal)

breakfast / family recipes / history  Posted by / 1 comments

Oatmeal in a Latino home is nothing like oatmeal in other places.  The microwave stuff is just ickygoop nonsense and it just plain grosses me out.  The plain oatmeal I’ve had at restaurants I will never have again because, well it’s just plain boring.  It sits in the bowl all sad kinda looking at you saying, “but I’m healthy.”  Yes it’s healthy and filled with cholesterol reducing fiber.  It’s great for your heart but it’s NOT my grandma’s oatmeal.

That wonderful little house on Goodwin Avenue in Los Angeles was always filled with good smells and flavors.  The flowers, trees and herbs scented the air and the frogs singing in the evenings was magical.  Mornings there were spent under piles of blankets in my Auntie Jessie’s bedroom with the antique oval framed picture of St. Teresa of Avila looking down upon me with sad eyes.  Eventually, the scent of my grandma Lupe cooking would drift in and capture me.  One of the aromas that always got me smiling was the cinnamony goodness of avena or oatmeal.

The oatmeal I grew up with was rich, decadent and almost like a pudding.  My grandmother would pull out her hammered pot with the worn wooden handle, add water and cinnamon (canela) sticks to it and a handful or two of plump, juicy raisins.  The water would boil till it was a deep, dark red and the house was absolutely redolent of cinnamon.  The raisins would plump up huge as they drank in the cinnamon water and start to float up.

When that happened, my grandmother would add in the oats.  She used old-fashioned rolled oats, or a mixture of grains and oats still with lots of fiber that my uncle would bring her from this grain place.  No quicky five minute oats for her.  No, she used the kind that takes at least 20 minutes.  She’d lower the flame on her oatmeal pot and stir in those yummy oats slowly.  They’d simmer away for 20 minutes absorbing all that cinnamon and raisin liquor.  Then came the decadent part.

Grandma Lupe would take a can of evaporated milk and pour that into her simmering pot of avena.  That thick, creamy, almost yellow milk would imbue the oatmeal with an intensely milky flavor and make the texture velvety.  Slowly the oats would bubble, with my grandma stirring carefully so it wouldn’t stick.  She’d had sugar bit by bit until her practiced eyes would tell it it was just right.  She’d then let it simmer, stirring all the while for another five minutes just to make sure that sugar was well blended and not grainy.

There was nothing better than that avena. She’d serve me in a little bowl with fresh milk poured over it and a pat of butter on top.  The first spoonful was super rich, super creamy and all kinds of delicious.  The raisins would burst in my mouth tasting unbelievably, insanely delicious.  I never forgot those mornings, made her avena for my kids almost every day and now, on a lazy Saturday morning am making it for my grandchildren whom I hope will have the same memories of a kitchen filled with love and cinnamony avena simmering in a pot.

Mar

08

The Sopes at the Fair

history / stories  Posted by / 0 comments

My grandparents were avidly religious, devout Catholics which meant that my grandmother spent a lot of time working for the little church down the street, Christo Rey.  When I was little, they’d have little tardeadas or late afternoon celebrations.  There were booths where food was sold to make money for the programs at the church, etc.  My grandmother tended a booth and hers was one of the busiest there.  She sold sopes, those wonderful cripsy corn tortillas with the pinched up sides filled with meat, beans and other toppings.

I remember helping make the sopes.  My job was to pinch up the sides of the tortilla, not such an easy job given it was a hot little thing.  My grandmother was make the masa, shape it into little balls and my Auntie Jessie would press them in the tortilla press.  She’d then had a fat little tortilla to my grandmother who would toast it on the griddle or comal till it was well cooked.  The hot sopes would land in a plate near me and my grandfather and we had the job of making the sides.

To create the sides on a sope it has to be hot or it just doesn’t hold up the side very well so you take it and pinch into the hot dough and pinch all the way around till you end up with about a 1/4 inch rim around the tortilla.  I always felt very brave and grown up pinching sopes because the tips of my little fingers would burn with the heat of them.  We kept a little bowl of cold water nearby and I’d dip my fingers into it when I felt them growing too hot.

Over the years, my fingers grew more and more accustomed to it and rather desensitized.  I pinch the sides of a sope without even thinking about it now, but when I was a kid in my grandmother’s kitchen it seemed a very grown up, big girl job that I was very proud to be able to do.

My grandmother and aunts made 100′s of sopes, chopped massive piles of tomatoes, onion and cilantro, shredded head after head of lettuce, cooked enormous pots of beans and meat.  They’d then schlep all that stuff to the church, set up the booth and using a little camping type fire, would immediately start heating the oil to fry the sopes in.

Soon enough there’d be a long line and the tias and my grandma would fry and fill, fry and fill.  I never remember a time when my grandmother’s booth didn’t sell out completely and then we were free to enjoy the event.  Once, there were even voladores that came and sent us all to gasping as they flew round and round the pole tied by just what appeared to be a ribbon.  I remember holding my grandpa’s hand thinking that they would fall and I still remember how he squeezed my hand and smiled down at me with that special smile that always made me feel safe and warm.  He was proud of the voladores, proud of being Mexican and proud of his heritage.

It’s been many, many years since those days of church fairs, sopes, cracked confetti eggs on the heads of my cousins and the music of boleros drifting in and out of the crowds of people in the transformed church parking lot, but the smells, sounds and memories are still as sharp as that first sting of hot dough on my fingers.