stories

Jul

15

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

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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.

Oct

25

How Tía Lola Makes Rice the Dominican Way: A Guest Post by Julia Alvarez

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how tia lola learned to teach cover

Doña Lupe’s Kitchen is again graced and honored with a lovely guest post by author Julia Alvarez. Thank you so much Julia for sharing your family recipes and stories!
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You’d think that white rice would be the one of the easiest dishes to make. After all, there are only two ingredients: rice and water! You do also add oil and salt, but basically, simply, you are just playing with two ingredients. The rest is chemistry. However, as some of you who took chemistry in high school might painfully remember, and I certainly do, chemistry isn’t necessarily the easiest subject in the world.
Here’s an admission: neither Bill nor I have been able to make rice as good as Tía Lola’s rice, which is to say, as good as my aunts make it in the Dominican Republic. We’ve wondered if their consistently excellent rice has to do with the pots they use: old aluminum ollas purchased in el mercado. But we’ve bought those pots and brought them to Vermont, and although our rice tastes better, it’s doesn’t taste as good as Tía Lola’s or my tías’ rice in the Dominican Republic.

Bill and I haven’t given up. Every time we go visit la familia, we watch with eagle eyes how my tías cook their rice. Just as with sofrito, each one has her own individual touch for making arroz blanco. One tía swears that covering the rice at the end with wax paper as well as a lid is what gives the rice that perfect texture of single, separate, but moist grains. Another tía claims her secret is heating the oil in the pot before adding the water and salt. A third tía shakes her head and snorts, “That’s ridiculous! You put in the oil after all the water has disappeared and bubbles start to form.” The amazing thing is that despite their different methods, my tías rice all tastes consistently, deliciously the same. But when Bill and I try their recipes stateside, our rice doesn’t taste like theirs. Ours ends up too gooey, too sticky, too dry, too overdone. So, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that in addition to their ingredients and procedures, my tías also use a little santería, as voodoo mixed with Catholicism is known on the Dominican side of the island.

So, below is the basic recipe that Bill and I keep trying to perfect. After following the directions, you might want to recite your own little magical spell over the boiling rice, just in case.
One last thing. In the Dominican Republic, there’s a special side dish that results from cooking the rice: con-con. It’s what sticks to the bottom and sides of the pot that you scrape out. Crunchy and saturated with oil, it’s my favorite part.

Use equal parts water and washed white rice.
(Be sure to use long grain rice–shorter grain rice is more sticky and good for sushi. Arborio rice, also short grained, is good for creamy risottos.)

Heat a couple of tablespoons olive oil or canola oil in a pot. Then add the water with a teaspoon of salt or bouillon cube if you prefer

When the water is boiling, add the rice. Stir a few times. Let rice boil until all the water has disappeared and bubbles form. Cover and cook over low heat for 15-20 minutes more.

Say your magical spell, uncover, and serve.

Don’t forget to scrape the sides for con-con!

© 2010 by Julia Alvarez

Sep

18

Project Food Blog Challenge #1: Who Am I?

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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.

Mar

07

Posole

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My daughter-in-law Mireya is from the state of Puebla in Mexico.  Sitting in her very modern kitchen 2200 odd miles from where I was born and raised, brings back memories of another time, another kitchen.  In that kitchen with it’s creaky old floors, the Los Angeles sunlight that streamed through the small window along with the smell of herbs and flowers, and most of all the love of my grandparents; I learned to love cooking.

This kitchen is cold to my L.A. body used to sunlight and drought.  It’s very modern and sleek with its black granite counters and stainless steel appliances and the glaring white of the snow outside, but its an incredibly warm kitchen in the ways that count.  There is love here in abundance, there is a keeping of tradition, a love of culture and family and the tastes and smells of it bring me home, keep my grandmother’s memory alive and bond me with this wonderful woman my son married.

Today she is making posole, but not the posole I am used to.  She is making what is known to be the traditional posole which is what we call posole blanco or white posole.  It is different from the one I make (Posole Tapatio) which is red and flavored with epazote.  Her recipe is exciting for me, a new one to learn and it belongs here in the archives of my family.

Last week we had green posole made with chicken, hominy and yerba santa.  It was delicious and completely different from what I am used to.

I watch my daughter-in-law work in brisk, quick steps.  She is deft in the kitchen, reminds me of the purposeful, quick moves of my grandmother and great aunts in their kitchens.  In some ways, she reminds me of my dear friend Elodia who moves with the same purpose and body language.  Mireya is nothing like Elodia though.  Lochi’s as I call her is tall, light skinned and thin where Mireya is very petite, dark-skinned and curvy.  They move the same though and as I watch my daughter-in-law, I am transported back to the kitchen of my friend near the hills of Griffith  Park where I grew up and can almost hear the years of laughter and good talks had at her kitchen table.

I read somewhere that Posole is an ancient recipe from Aztec/Mexica times which I well believe, given mole is from the same pre-Hispanic origin.  The word pozole in Nahuatl means espuma or foam and it gets its name from the foam that arises when the dried corn or cacahuazintle is boiled.  There are Conquest documents that talk about the pozole of Mocetuzuma having body parts in it but I highly doubt the veracity of any Conquest document.  To them, the Mexica people were the very devil, so I take most of what they said with a grain or two of salt.

Mireya’s Posole Blanco

1 pound of dried corn or cacahuazintle, prepared Nixtamal or  2 15-oz cans of hominy if you prefer it
2 pounds pork shoulder, cubed
oregano
salt to taste
chile pequin powder
shredded lettuce
diced white onion
lemons

If you’re using the maiz (nixtamal corn)they sell bagged in the store for posole, there’s no need to use the lye to soften it.  Just open the bag and let it soak overnight in water.  Clean off all the floating bits and strain it out.  If you want to try dried corn, you’re gonna have to use lye and that’s another post in the making.   Mireya uses canned hominy because that’s what my grandson Luis likes.  Kids tend to prefer canned hominy over the more gritty maiz or nixtamal.

Fill a stockpot half way with water, add the pork and hominy, salt to taste and a pinch oregano and cover.  Should boil on low flame 2-3 hours till the pork is so tender it falls apart at the touch of a fork.

If you are using the nixtamal, the maiz should boil first with salt to taste and a clove or two of garlic if you want, until it blossoms into what looks like little flowers and gives off the characteristic foam that gives the stew its name.  When the maiz blossoms, its time to add the pork and continue cooking.

Pour the stew into bowls and top with chopped onion, pinch of the powdered chile pequin for color and flavor, oregano, shredded lettuce and squeeze a lemon over it.

Serve with corn tortillas.

Mar

06

Rain

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The rain beats against my window with no rhythm, no rhyme.  At times it is unrelenting, vicious in its determination to get inside.  It batters the windows, rattles them; then frustrated, it takes a breath and prepares for the next assault.  It’s been raining five days now in Los Angeles.  There have been tornado warnings, 65 mph gale winds, hail and rain in buckets enough to generate a Twitter hashtag called #theendoftheworld.  At times the rain is gentle, soothing; the kind of rain that makes one long for Sunday papers in bed, a good book, a cuddle with a loved one or the smell of bacon and coffee drifting upstairs to waken you.

I love that kind of rain, it always propels me to the kitchen, to bake or make soup – the vegetable rich, lemony caldo de pollo that my grandmother made so often.  Brimming with color from corn on the cob, translucent green cabbage, dark green zucchini, bright orange carrots, the pale quarters of onions and the earthy dark of unskinned potatoes.  She’d serve it in a deep bowl over a scoop of red Spanish rice with warm corn tortillas wrapped in a cloth to keep them warm and a half slice of lemon to squeeze over it.  She always did hers a little different, a way I thought special.  To hers, she’d slice up a regular banana, not a plaintain but a banana and add a sprig of mint.  It gave an unusual sweetness to the soup that was distinctly Grandma Lupe.  No one else ate it that way, it was Grandma’s soup.  Sweet, distinct, unusual with a gentle touch, just like her.

Always on the table was the fresh salsa de molcajete she made and my grandfather, Papa Chava would pile it up on his bowl.  It added a smoky, spicy flavor to the soup that I loved and still do now with the added flavor of memories.  I make it often, roasting the tomatoes on the comal till their skins burst, wrapping the roasted chiles in a damp cloth so their skins can steam off and gently removing the cilantro leaves from their stems to add whole to the salsa.  I am recreating my grandmother’s steps, I am keeping her memory alive in my kitchen.

My grandmother’s salsa had little cilantro flowers in it because my grandfather grew cilantro in a way to ensure she never ran out.  He’d stagger the planting carefully so that there were soft earthy mounds with tiny stems poking their heads out, the next with the cilantro a little bigger, the next in full cutting mode and the back mounds were left to go to seed.  He gathered those round seeds and dried them carefully, saving them in an old glass baby food jar that he kept in his garage/gardening shed.

When the cilantro flowered, my grandmother loved to put the tiny white blossoms in her salsa and in the tomato relish (I guess you can call it that) that she made for tacos and tostadas.  The blossoms were surprisingly flavorful, that sharp green tang of the cilantro intensified.  You’d never know such a tiny, wispy flower would pack such a punch.  Store bought cilantro just isn’t the same.  The leaves are so much bigger, the flavor not as intense and of course, there are no delicate, lacy white blossoms to beautify and flavor your dish.

The rain is calming now and I’m still making up my mind whether to go out, bake or make soup.  For now, I’m content to snuggle in, pet my dog and remember a kitchen where love what the secret ingredient.