jessie

Aug

07

My Grandma’s Avena (Oatmeal)

breakfast / family recipes / history  Posted by / 1 comments

avena1 768x1024 My Grandmas Avena (Oatmeal)

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.

avena3 1024x768 My Grandmas Avena (Oatmeal)

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.

avena2 1024x768 My Grandmas Avena (Oatmeal)

Apr

10

Empanadas de manzana

baked goods  Posted by / 4 comments

When I was a little girl growing up and hanging out in my Grandma Lupe’s kitchen, I always looked forward to the weather cooling off because then it would be time for her wonderful empanadas. There was nothing better than being in that small but homey kitchen at the old red table half covered with wooden boards dusted with flour, neat little balls of masa (dough), the bowls of chopped apples dredged in cinnamon and sugar, the freshly cooked mashed pumpkin or banana squash and other fruits ready in preparation for those empanadas.

Like my Papa Chava, my favorites were the apple ones and I remember hardly being able to wait till they got out of the oven. I almost always scalded my tongue biting into a too hot apple empanada, the hot sticky juice dripping down my chin. I didn’t care how burnt my tongue got, they were that good. The smell was intoxicating too. Who doesn’t love the smell of baking apples and cinnamon?

The masa or dough was an awful lot like tortilla dough, but instead of lard Grandma used butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon and I can’t remember but I think she added a bit of sugar to the dough and when I make them for my grandkids, I add in a bit to give the dough a little sweetness. Grandma Lupe would make a huge amount of the dough and then pinch of little balls of it and cover them with her flour sack dishtowels to keep the dough from drying.

My very important job as a little girl was to scoop pumpkin or apples carefully into the center of the rolled out circle of dough, brush on a little egg wash along the edges and then pinch over the edges into a neat little pattern, making sure it was tightly closed all along the edge. My Aunt Jessie and Papa helped too and we worked quickly, filling a variety of cookie sheets with lots and lots of ready to go into the oven empanadas. A brush of egg wash went over the top of each empanada, then they were poked three times with a fork. I loved doing that.

Soon enough the house would begin to smell of baked dough, apples and cinnamon, the sweet gingery scent of pumpkin, and whatever other fruits we were making empanadas from. Sometimes we did cherry, pineapple, guayaba, or peaches. It depended on what we had in the house or what we felt like experimenting with. I’ve made them from membrillo (quince), guayaba and cheese, raspberries, strawberries, etc and I love them all. I remember days standing out in the cold waiting for the school bus eating a hot empanada wrapped in a napkin and feeling like I couldn’t have a better breakfast.

To this day, my favorites are the apple empanadas and each time I bite into a too hot empanada and scald my tongue, I remember those chilly days in my grandmother’s kitchen and how happy they made my grandfather, who loved to dip them in his cup of coffee. No matter what kind we made, we always had to include apple for him. My grandmother never once failed to consider how much he loved apples. The memories I have of empanadas make me both grateful to have had that childhood of wonder in my grandmother’s kitchen and wistful as I wish she and my grandfather were still here.

I don’t make as many empanadas these days since my kids are grown and gone and I’m trying to be better about giving the grandkids too many baked goodies. These days I’m trying to give them more fresh fruit and cut up veggies but occasionally sneak in a yummy thing like empanadas.

Grandma Lupe’s Empanadas de manzana
For the filling:
12 baking apples, peeled, cored and sliced
3 tbsps sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ginger
1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

Mix together the apples, ginger, sugar, cinnamon and lemon juice in a large mixing bowl. Set aside.

For the masa:

6 cups flour
1/2 c butter
1/4 c sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp baking powder
Hot water
Pinch salt
1 tsp ground cinnamon

Preheat oven to 325.

Sift the flour, sugar, salt and cinnamon together until well blended. Add the eggs and cut in the butter then add the hot water, little by little (i do it in sprinkles) till a soft, but not sticky dough forms into a smooth ball. Pinch off small balls (about 3 inches in diameter) and let rest on a floured board covered.

Roll out a ball into a 1/4 inch thick circle and scoop in the apples making sure that when you fold it over, the apples don’t go out to the edge. Brush the edge with an egg wash, using a pastry brush then gently fold over and seal the edges by pinching them closed. Add holes to the center to allow the steam to escape, then place onto a greased cookie sheet. When the cookie sheet is full, brush each empanada with the egg wash and then bake for about 15-20 minutes or until golden brown.

Mar

17

Carne de puerco con mole y nopales (Pork with cactus in red mole sauce)

family recipes / main dishes  Posted by / 1 comments

In my family, we all have our favorite things my Grandma Lupe cooked.  I was just visiting my Aunt Jessie in the hospital and we were of course talking about food.  I asked her what her favorite thing was that my grandma cooked and she immediately smiled and said, “the mole with nopales and carne de puerco.”  Immediately, my mouth started to water in memory.  I haven’t had those in years and we chatted for a bit, talking about the ingredients and how to make it.

The mole was different than most, very piquant and delicious with a tangy, smokey flavor that haunts my memory.  I’ve never tasted mole like hers for nopales (cactus) and carne de puerco (pork) anywhere else.  The nopales are de-thorned, washed and sliced into 1-inch sections, then boiled with quartered onion for about ten minutes, then drained and set aside.  You can make them ahead of time and refrigerate them to save time.

Carne de puerco con nopales y mole

For the mole:

Chiles California’s (dried california chiles) 8-10 of them

1 small onion

water

salt to taste

Boil the chiles in water with one quartered onion until they are soft about 20 minutes.  Scoop out the chiles and onion with a slotted spoon and scoop them out  and cool them off.  Taking a sharp paring knife, cut into the chiles and remove the stems, veins and seeds then place them into a blender.  Blend until smooth.

For the pork:

2 pounds cubed pork (pork shoulder or pork chops with the fat untrimmed)
salt and pepper
1 small onion, diced
1 or 2 cloves of garlic
1 bay leaf

Fry the pork until it is browned and crispy.  Start off on a high flame then lower it and stir occasionally, to keep from sticking.  The pork needs to be very, very crispy, almost cooked through  into hard little nuggets.

Scoop the pork out and drain.  Set aside.

Drain off some of the drippings from the pan, leaving about two tablespoons in.  Add the onions and sautee them, scraping the from the bottom of the pan.  When the onions are nicely browned, add the cooked pork, a clove of garlic and the bay leaf.  Cook on low heat for about ten minutes stirring occasionally.  Add in the sauce and the reserved nopales and let simmer for another 40 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Remove the bay leaf and the garlic cloves and discard.

Serve with rice, beans and fresh tortillas.

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.

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