A Silver Lining

March 2010 - It is a strange thing, colonialism. The word itself is so politically charged that nearly everyone who hears it has some immediate emotional response, whether it be anger, resentment, nostalgia…any myriad of feelings. For me, my mind always seems to conjure up images of Indian palaces full of stoic men with handlebar mustaches. They wear white, turn-the-century British Army uniforms, pith helmets slouching down below tanned brows. The sound of peacocks comes to mind, like a snippet from a montage out of “The Secret Garden” or some other English nineteenth century classic. It is exotic and undeniably romantic. I am keenly aware that my Walt Disney idea of what colonialism means is a direct result of never having experienced it whatsoever. I happily live in the United States-- itself once a colony, though hardly under a foreign rule these days. I recognize how fortunate I am to never have experienced the sometimes devastating effects of living under foreign rule in your own homeland. But as I ponder my luck I can’t help but realize how naïve I would be if I seriously believed that I, a Puerto Rican, have never experienced the products colonialism has brought to the Americas. Today, Puerto Rico is a United States commonwealth—not so different (and still influenced by) its Spanish-colonial past.

I don’t want to dwell on the negative. We Puerto Ricans have many nations to thank for who we have become today. It would be easy to argue politics, to debate historical rights and wrongs until we’re blue in the face. There is one reason I bring up such a seemingly-serious topic in this food column and that is what I like to call the “Silver Lining of Colonialism”—you guessed it. Delicious food.

No one in the world can convince me that we, the Earth, would have even a fraction of the delicious foods we have today if no culture, at one point or another, crossed a border and melded with another. Whether right or wrong, entire cuisines exist because of this phenomenon, this mixing of people. One of my favorite examples is Vietnamese food, largely influenced by French colonialism. Because of this meeting of cultures, we have banh mi—sandwiches that are the ultimate love-child of France and Vietnam’s native flavors. The entire Mediterranean is a melting pot of cuisines influencing one another. And then there is the best (and my most favorite) example of how wonderful the blending of cultures and cuisines can be—Puerto Rican food. Largely made up of flavors native to the Caribbean, Africa and Spain, Puerto Rican food as we know and enjoy it today would be utterly non-existent if those headstrong Spanish hadn’t landed on our island home several hundred years ago. We would have no onions, garlic, olives, olive oil or oregano, to say the least. Nor would we enjoy such staples as plantain, coconut or coffee if they hadn’t been thoughtfully carried over by our African brethren. The thought alone sends shivers of horror down my spine. Life without garlicky mofongo? It would be absolutely tragic.

I have to say, one of my favorite influences on Puerto Rican cooking is neither Spanish nor African. It’s actually Italian…or rather, Italian-American. The dish I’m referring to was invented in my Tio Carmelo’s kitchen. He calls it “Puerto Rican Spaghetti” and it is almost exactly what it sounds like. A native Puerto Rican, Carmelo spent many years in New York City cooking in restaurants and eating that classic Italian-American dish—spaghetti. While I don’t know the exact story, I imagine that after retiring in his native island home he must have decided he missed the ubiquitous dish. While not a die-hard fan of classic Italian food, he took it upon himself to make it more…well, Puerto Rican. I first tried this surprisingly fabulous dish on my 2005 family vacation to the island. It was love at first bite. Simple and saucy, with big chunks of tender chicken falling off the bone, I couldn’t have found a more appropriate dish to represent everything I am down to my very soul. After all, while I’m proudly half Puerto Rican, my other half is mostly Italian. I make this dish myself now, for my husband and his family. They love it and while neither Puerto Rican nor Italian, they understand how bizarre and fantastic being a “mutt” can be (whether you are human, or simply a delicious plate of food).

Today, political strife is rampant. We have entire newspapers, magazines and television shows devoted to creating feelings of isolation, separatism and fear of racial and cultural intermingling. My fellow Puerto Ricans, don’t allow them to make you forget who we are. We are many people, we are many things. We are many sights, sounds, smells and (thankfully) tastes. While we may not be able to share everything, I believe that only good can come from sharing our food, from breaking the proverbial bread with others and being open to welcoming a little of their foods into our lives as well. Call me a dreamer, but I think the table is the best place for people to discover their common ground. What could more peaceful? No, wait…what could be more delicious? Here’s hoping we can all go forth proudly and share our culture, our wonderful dishes, with everyone we meet.

While I have changed this a little, this recipe is essentially how Puerto Rican Spaghetti was prepared for me, both in 2005 and on my honeymoon last November. For you to enjoy, I give you Tio Carmelo’s Puerto Rican Spaghetti:

Ingredients:

1 chicken, cut up into pieces
1 package spaghetti noodles
2 small cans tomato sauce
1-2 chicken bouillon cubes
1 packet Sazon “Achiote y Culantro” seasoning (I sometimes use two)
A sprinkling of adobo (homemade or Goya)

Directions:

In a deep pot, brown the chicken pieces in a little (just a little!) oil. In a separate pot, bring about 5-6 cups of water to a boil and add the bouillon cubes, stirring to dissolve. Take the spaghetti noodles, snap in half and add to the chicken broth. Stir and cook for about a minute. Pour the entire pot (water and all) of noodles over the chicken pieces and add the tomato sauce and seasonings. Liquid should just barely cover chicken (if pieces stick out a little, it's ok). Cook on a medium simmer, adding water if needed, until both the chicken and spaghetti noodles are cooked through and the sauce is somewhat absorbed. The dish should be saucy and moist, but not swimming in sauce. I learned to make this by sight (as most family recipes are) without the use of measuring cups, so play with it until you find the amounts you like best. While I love this recipe, I don’t see how browning the chicken with a good helping of sofrito could hurt. Experiment and enjoy.

A Mid-Winter Downpour

February 2010 - It is raining outside and threatening to snow. It is a freezing January evening here in California-- The Golden State: lauded for its sunshine, palm-lined avenues and orange orchards. "Pathetic," I think to myself as I turn my heater up another notch from "Volcanic" to "Raging Inferno." I can't help but think about the other, better rainfalls I've experienced. How, you might ask, can some rainstorms be better than others? Why location, location, location of course.

For example, a rainfall in dreary San Francisco on a school-day during rush hour isn't quite as nice as a rainfall in, say, Honolulu on the beach in summer. In the same way, my pathetic mid-winter downpour isn't nearly as lovely as the torrential thunderstorm my husband and I had the good fortune to experience in El Yunque Rainforest National Park. Oh, how vividly my frozen toes remember the humidity, the calm before the storm. We had just had a delightful misadventure involving an incorrect map, terrible directions (are there any other kind in Puerto Rico?), the slightly-terrifying-to-tourists housing projects in Fajardo and two very lost honeymooners. They would be us, of course. Using my best judgment I decided to do what all smart tourists who are lost in dangerous and unfamiliar neighborhoods should do-- panic and begin shouting in terror while gesticulating wildly. This may have been more useful had I not also been the driver. But as fate would have it, we were not destined to die on the outskirts of Fajardo that evening. Instead, we dipped our toes into the bioluminescent waters of the bay, laughing with delight as the dark ripples flashed brilliant electric blue on our kayak paddles. That night the storm came, bombastic and exuberant and wonderful.

My toes are remembering this fondly. I can tell that they hate me for taking them away from white sand beaches with shell strewn surfs. What wouldn't I give to be in my home, my island home, at this very moment?

I've found that the solution to most of life's problems is usually located in the kitchen, so it is there that I now saunter. Happily I discover two cans of coconut milk in the cabinet (the way-back part that always gathers dust). My hands are remembering the island too. They're in cahoots with my toes. They too miss the warmth, the soft fur of my Tia Ida's cats, the smooth husk of a green coconut, the rough stones of an ancient fortress. They take over, sick of being cold and bored week after rainy week. When they are done, they instruct me to check the fridge. Under a perfect tent of aluminum foil is the creation that will instantly take me back. Back to the blue water, back to the white sand, back to the humid air and the blazing sunshine and the sweet breezes. It is tembleque: a cool, smooth coconut pudding with cinnamon sprinkled on top. Maybe it was instinct, or perhaps just the deep memories that moved me to make it. Maybe it was the Taino ancestors telling me what I needed to be at peace with things like snow and cold. Whatever it was, my hands (with the encouragement of my toes) made something that for a moment brings me back to the place where my soul resides. I taste the palms and blue surf, I taste the vivid history and the salty air and even a bit of...could that be a rainstorm? I close my eyes and savor this wonderfully authentic Puerto Rican treat.

And now it doesn't matter that I am freezing and that my fingers and toes miss Puerto Rico almost as much as my heart does. It is immensely satisfying that I can actually go there, in my own small way, anytime that I want by simply opening my kitchen cabinets. My toes are still asking me to turn the heat up one more notch (to "Blazing Hell" this time) but my taste buds, fortunately, can't tell the difference. To them, and to my nostalgic heart, I am already where I belong.

Island Adventures: Part One

January 2010 - We were seeking the exotic: lush, uninhabited jungle. In our minds we imagined telling our grandchildren about trekking through the underbrush someday, meeting hazardous insects, murderous pythons and taking down an illegal poacher or two- bare handed, of course. We were seeking adventure of the most ridiculous kind.

So that is how, on the third day our honeymoon, my husband and I ended up in Naguabo, Puerto Rico. Anyone who has been to Naguabo knows that the biggest adventure to be had there is a trip to the local Ralph's Supermercado. It is apparently the birthplace of the pastelillo de chapin, a fabulous deep-fried pocket of crispy dough stuffed with fish, but from where we were sitting (the Ralph's parking lot) it didn't look terribly exciting. Lush, it did look. Naguabo is situated on the edge of El Yunque National Forest, the stunning and federally protected rain forest of the Caribbean. Our final destination was actually a tiny bed and breakfast located right inside of El Yunque National Forest. We thought stocking up might be a good idea before heading into the unknown and untamed wild.

After purchasing copious amounts of fresh pan de agua and genoa salami, we followed a terrifyingly narrow and bumpy road into the forest in search of our lodging. After some clever rental car gymnastics (it really was a terrifying road), we were warmly welcomed by Mary and William, the managers of the bed and breakfast and residents of El Yunque since their birth. "Come," said William, leading us around the beautiful property on a little private tour. Never in all our days had we seen so many trees. There was banana, with giant leaves towering over our cottage. The unripe soursop, to be juiced and mixed with sugar for a morning beverage. There was avocado, dangling full and sumptuously and ripe starfruit for us to pick right outside our door. Beehives buzzed down a little hiking trail. Breadfruit hung provocatively from and ancient tree. Never before had we seen such forest-- every square inch was inhabited by some plant or creature. Certainly I had never seen so much edible food growing wild, just asking to be picked and eaten. Mary and William were generous-- we could pick and eat anything we wanted. That day we rested, marveling at this stunning and enormous place.

The following evening we drove to Fajardo Bay to take a nighttime kayaking expedition into a bioluminescent lagoon. After yet another harrowing journey through what we quickly realized were several miles of dangerous looking housing projects, we arrived at the bay. The moon was at half-mast. The mangrove forest through which we paddled chirped with the singing coqui, dogs woofing hesitantly, bats, insects, birds all awake and singing the songs of the forest. All was dark except the silver reflection of the moon, shining in patches on the water whenever the tree shadows gave it a chance. The lagoon was unbelievable. Filled with tiny organisms that emit their own light when disturbed, the water glowed a vibrant electric blue when touched or moved by hand or paddle. Even fish caused the brilliant phenomenon, swimming past like ghosts in the dark water, leaving blue streaks like shooting stars. What an adventure, I thought as the sparkling droplets ran down my arm.

The drive back to our little cottage in the forest was quiet. Had our thirst for the exotic been so easily satiated? It isn't easy to describe the indescribable beauty that is El Yunque and my entire Island Home, Puerto Rico. My husband turned to me, during the short thirty-minute drive, and with solemn eyes asked if we could simply move here someday instead of the other places we dreamed about living. Yes. Yes, dear, we can.

Rain sprinkled our windshield like salt and pepper as we pulled in. And then, with barely a moments notice, the sky opened and the most torrential rainstorm I've ever experienced began pounding on our roof. We made a mad dash through the banana trees to our door as thunder erupted overhead. Still warm and comfortable despite the downpour, we lounged on our deck chairs listening. In the deep, ever moving darkness of the jungle, I felt safe listening to that sound. Even more than the sweet coqui, or the chirruping of birds, it was the downpour of the rain-- the poetry of the mountain-- that comforted me. I imagined the Taino ancestors gathering in the darkness, their spirits keeping us safe. I knew as well as anyone that El Yunque can hardly be called "wild" and "untamed" but our tiny adventures had given us more than we had expected the most murderous python could. We drifted off listening to the rain forest poems, eager for what adventure the next day might bring.

Oh Heavenly Barbacoa

Septemer 2000 - At this moment, I can happily say I am smelling the greatest smell the nose of mankind has ever sniffed. No, it's not the smell of money or fame (though I haven't experienced much of either of those particular scents and wouldn't know them to begin with). What is this remarkable aroma, you ask? Why, it's that wonderful, tantalizing smell of a lit and happily grilling barbecue, of course! What does this have to do with Puerto Rican culture? Well my Puerto Rican brothers and sisters, everything.

It is widely believed that the native Puerto Ricans, the Tainos, were the inventors of the barbecue grill. Certainly we derive the modern English word "barbecue" from their native "barbacoa." While I personally have no proof that my ancestors were the first to tie some sticks together over a flaming coal pit, happily throwing some shrimp on their rustic "barbies," I have no reason to believe they weren't. Pinchos and lechon alone are enough proof for me, that's for sure. And a perfectly grilled morcilla? Nothing on Earth can come close.

The wonderful thing about a barbecue is its potential for simplicity. Whether you're cooking on a tricked-out, gas-powered Weber or simply a hole you dug in the ground and filled with coals, it doesn't take much effort after you've thrown on the goods-- meat, fish or veggie. While careful and loving attention always brings about the best result, a faithful barbecue does all the work for you (short of flipping the burgers) generously allowing you to play host to your guests, pets or television set. As far as flavor goes, there's no comparison to that heady smoke flavor. So intoxicating and addicting is the fresh-grilled, smokey quality in barbecued food that whole companies devote themselves to selling terrible, bottled liquid imitations. We Puerto Ricans know better.

It's still summer here in California, and my New York-Puerto Rican father is in his glory, bringing home sausage, chicken and vegetables to grill outside on our little three-legged Weber grill. He's searched in vain for his beloved morcilla, the dark-hued blood sausage so many Puerto Ricans hold dear to their hearts. I've promised him that I will bring some back, keep it safe in a carry-on when I return from the island in November. It's our Indian Summer here in the foothills-- warm, the perfect barbecue weather. The evening air fills with that magical aroma-- meat on sticks over fire. How primal it is, ancient in fact. Yet after thousands of years, we can't help but return to it. In America, the smell of grilling marks our summertime and our patriotic holidays-- try to imagine the 4th of July without hot dogs on grills. I haven't yet experienced pinchos in PR, but when I do I have a feeling they'll give me that same nostalgic feeling. Is it a feeling of oneness with our past and the ancient people who gave us these perfect methods of cooking our beloved foods? Is it the memories we associate with these aromas? Or is it simply that these foods are delicious, always were and always will be?

I can't say. But I know one thing for sure-- my father just finished grilling chicken marinated in garlic and oregano. I see a plate of sausages, crisp and brown on the counter. Isn't it in the true nature of every Puerto Rican to know when something delicious is being served? May all Puerto Ricans celebrate this simple, wonderful form of cooking in these last few pleasant days of the year. Buen appetito.

S a v e d

August 2009 - When I was two, I was saved. I'm barely religious, but it really happened. We were living in a rented house on Verano Drive. My mother grew sweet peas and string beans in the backyard. My Abuelita and Abuelito had just arrived from the airport, fresh off the plane from New York City. After hugs and kisses, everyone got down to business which, in my family, means pastele time. Although Abuelita and Abuelito could only fly to California once a year, they always made the most of their visit.

The highlight was their carry-on suitcase, filled to the brim with homemade pasteles Abuelita had made and a huge jar of sofrito she would cook with during her stay. Almost as soon as they arrived, a pot of water would be plunked down on the stove, ready and waiting for the precious white packages tied tight with string. Twenty minutes later, laughing and talking, my family would sit down to steaming plates of this homemade treat, avocado slices close at hand, mounds of arroz con gandules on each plate and pique bottles dispersed down the length of the dining room table.

On this particular visit, it suddenly occurred to everyone that baby Vanessa had not yet tasted the glory that is a fresh pastele. Wondering aloud whether a two year old would enjoy such an exotic taste and unfamiliar texture, it was widely decided upon that I would mostly likely politely spit it out. But Abuelita had faith in me. I was, after all, her first grandchild. While this story is second-hand (I can't quite remember being two as clearly as I'd like), the ending never surprised me. It was at this very moment that I had a near-religious experience. With the first soft bite of pastele I was saved, a convert to all things Puerto Rican.

While the story itself may be unremarkable, this defining moment happens in nearly everyone's life, certainly every Puerto Rican's life. Maybe it was the first taste of morcilla, or that first spoonful of asopao de camarrones. Maybe a perfectly ripe mango was the defining culinary moment-- the moment that made people realize how delicious and remarkable their island heritage is even if they were too young to remember it now. For me, it was this first bite of pastele. What happened next was so common for me, even as an adult, that everyone who didn't know me then can clearly picture it now. Abuelita patiently took a warm pastele, sat down in front of my high chair and began to feed me.

My mouth opened in a wide smile, like a little bird, hoping for more. My hands wiggled excitedly, and I did a characteristic "happy-dance" in my seat. Laughing, Abuelita patiently fed me the whole thing, surprised that such a little person could eat an entire pastele. Of course, Abuelita was bursting pride and everyone told the story of my first pastele for years. While I can't remember the day or the experience, I think about that moment every time I eat pasteles and wonder, what if they hadn't given me one? Would I be a different person? Would I have grown up without a taste for Puerto Rican food? Or would it have been something else, some other dish on a different day, that saved me from a life without comida criolla? I always get the same answer-- yes. It would have been something else. No matter who introduced us, no matter what dish it was that we first ate, I like to think that at those moments we knew, no matter how young we were, that this was food meant for us. In our heart of hearts, and more importantly our growling tummies, we knew. At those delicious moments, we were saved.

Planning A Lifetime

August 2009 - I had no idea planning my honeymoon to Puerto Rico would be such a difficult endeavor. I've bought the plane tickets (Sacramento to New York to San Juan and back again), I've reserved a rental car. I've even made a reservation at a fancy hotel in Old San Juan. While this may not sound like much, it's an impressive accomplishment after suffering a severe case of what I like to call "excitement-shock." It's that peculiar feeling of being completely overwhelmed with exciting options-- all of them fun, amazing, tantalizing in their own way, and the resulting deer-in-the-headlights petrification. I really shouldn't be this overwhelmed. In truth, I've been planning this pilgrimage to Puerto Rico from the moment I stepped foot on board the return flight home from San Juan in 2005. No, even earlier. From the moment I gave my tia Ida the last goodbye hug, stepped into our rental car and drove tearfully down the lush mountain-side, away from her Guayama home. Maybe I've been planning it since I was little, a baby, tasting my first pastele. This trip has become more than a honeymoon. My fiancé has become a happy tag-along, eager to experience the place I call my "island home."

The funny thing about my planning, though, is how I've chosen what sights we're going to see. Sure we'll do the touristy things, like visiting Castillo de San Cristobal and going kayaking on the bioluminescent bay off Vieques. But where exactly we end up is being decided in a thoroughly Puerto Rican manner. I am mapping out our itinerary by meal, assembling a tour de cuisine of Puerto Rico, choosing our stops throughout the island by consulting my most mouthwatering culinary memories of island fare. And oh how exciting and, yes, overwhelming it is.

How to fit it all in? First and foremost there's the pork to attend to. Lechoneras in Guavate are a must. I feel like a pioneer traveling west in a covered wagon, imagining that the streets in California are paved with gold. Except I'm traveling to Guavate, and surely there the streets are paved with lechón.

And what of the seti? The near-mythical tiny fish, caught only during the summer months, so small they are caught with muslin cloth, on the northern side of the island? Surely this is something not even my father has tasted. Arecibo, here we come.

There will be chicharrones in Bayamón. Maybe there we'll pick up some morcilla to bring home to Dad-- the dark, pungent sausage that reminds me of my childhood when he would barbecue it on the grill for us to savor. There will be piraguas from vendors in Old San Juan, the shaved ice that awakens the child in anyone who is lucky enough to slurp up those electric syrups. Of course we'll get coquito from little carts at Luquillo Beach, the most perfect glorification of coconut the world could ever have. We can't miss any of it, I think, as I make my phone calls and check the confirmation emails. To miss a single Puerto Rican specialty would be a travesty, something bordering treason. But how, how can we see it all? How can anyone fit our heritage, all of our recipes, all of our dishes, all of our meals, all that food into two weeks?

So, with an incredulous sigh, I give in. We will eat like kings and live like tourists on the island I love more than any other. We will experience as much as we possibly can-- and take all those delicious memories with us to savor for years and years to come. I realize now what I'm actually doing, why this planning has overwhelmed me. We're not just planning one honeymoon, but a lifetime of experiences that we need to collect on the island that means so much to so many. Our island home. What better way to plan a lifetime than with an open heart and a growling tummy?

Appeasing the Ancestors
Another Adventure in Puerto Rican Cooking

July 2009 - My stomach grumbled, a tight knot of anxiety. Today was the day. I couldn't put it off any longer. Today was the day I attempted to make Rellenos de Papa, those lovely, fried balls of goodness made from ground meat and mashed potatoes. The recipe had been kindly suggested to me, and I always loved to learn to make new things, especially Puerto Rican dishes. So why was I nervous? I couldn't understand it. I tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong making a fried dish that would inevitably splatter volcanically hot oil-- third degree burns, blindness, disfiguration. After all, this is the price we pay for delicious meals, isn't it? I took the sofrito cubes out the freezer and got down to business.

If you're wondering why I took the sofrito out of the freezer in cubes, I'll digress for a moment and explain my foolproof method for making sofrito. Foolproof because it means I never again have to feel like a fool, wanting to cook something Puerto Rican and finding I don't have any sofrito ingredients. Whenever I find I am low on sofrito, I buy the ingredients in bulk (which in California are onions, garlic, red and green bell pepper to substitute for the aji dulce, and cilantro to substitute for the ricao) and make all of it at once. Then I spoon the sofrito into ice cube trays and stick the cubes into a Ziploc freezer bag once they've hardened. I highly recommend it, as it allows one to have fresh sofrito without making it every time, and you can use as little or as much as you'd like without having to thaw a whole Tupperware container full.

Out came the sofrito. Out came the ground beef. Out came the...mashed potato flakes? I suddenly realized why I was nervous. Somewhere inside my heart I was worried that I'd do it wrong, that I'd inadvertently offend the Taíno ancestors by making a sacrilege shortcut or worse. My father had told me that my Abuelita, the most wonderful Puerto Rican cook of all time, had made Rellenos de Papa frequently before she'd passed away. And here I was using instant mashed potatoes. I took a deep breath. No matter, I thought. Abuelita understands that I am testing a recipe, which I was. I'd never before used instant mashed potato flakes, so the experience was quite novel to me. They reminded me very much of astronaut food, I thought, watching the little freeze-dried flakes flutter into the measuring cup. I strayed making the picadillo, too. I'd run out of garlic powder, so I sprinkled Adobo seasoning in. Then I added black pepper and sea salt for flavor. I imagined I could hear the ancestors' angry drumming from beyond and their angry chanting, "She used Adobo instead of garlic powder! And instant mashed potatoes!" It tasted delicious though, so I'd hoped it wasn't to great a travesty.

The oil proved to be less murderous than I'd anticipated. It sat demurely in the pot, trembling with excitement when it finally became hot enough. I dropped the Rellenos in, and they sizzled nicely. After several failed attempts I switched to using some leftover fresh mashed potatoes that my mother had serendipitously prepared the day before. Cold, and without the addition of egg, the little balls held together much better instead of taking on the melting-hamburger look of the originals. Now intensely curious, I brought one crispy forkful to my mouth. Had my shortcuts jinxed them? Were the ancestors grumbling at this American who doesn't know how to properly cook their lovely, delicious dishes? I bit down and closed my eyes. All was well. The ancestors were definitely smiling.

Conquering The Rice
June 2009

I stood miserably in my kitchen looking over a blackened, smoldering heap. An exasperated sigh was all I could utter. I’d failed, again, to turn down the rice. “The rice,” as it has come to be known, was intended to be a delicious pot of that wonderful classic, rice with pigeon peas, also known as arroz con gandules. I’d gathered all my ingredients (no small task, living in California) and prepared everything perfectly. It was all going marvelously until I forgot to turn down the stove. I ran back to the kitchen much later, alerted by a waft of smoke. My poor ingredients and my forlorn looking pot, now another terrible mess.

Having difficulty making rice runs in my family. For many years my mother struggled to make rice correctly, throwing out dozens of pots of overcooked or nearly raw rice that never cooked properly. One day she decided it was time to finally master the art. She began making a pot of rice every day until each was perfect. Every time she would take scrupulous notes, not wanting to forget any detail. I am proud to say that today my Italian mother makes arroz con gandules every bit as well as my native Puerto Rican Abuelita and I’m not the only one who thinks so. My father happily boasts about it to relatives. So what was my problem? My brain just wandered idly until the smoke alarm brought it back to reality. I felt I was shaming my very heritage. A Puerto Rican who can’t make rice? Impossible! I would conquer the rice, even if I had to make it every day.

A few days later a test of my new resolve presented itself. I’d offered to make dinner for the harshest judge of Puerto Rican cooking I will ever meet-- my dad. Having been raised almost entirely on Puerto Rican food in the South Bronx of New York City, he’d gladly accepted my invitation, never having heard about the arroz disasters. Now the challenge. I simmered the onions and sofrito, added the rice and water, put on the lid and waited. I actually stayed in the kitchen and watched the pot. In just a few minutes the telltale bubbling sound issued forth and I scampered over, rescuing the beautiful rice from an all-to-common fate. Shortly after, I carefully lifted the lid . . .  could this be the moment I learned to correctly make arroz con gandules? The fate of the free world didn’t depend on it, but my pride and reputation as a cook certainly did. I sniffed, I mixed, I tasted. I smiled.

I thoroughly enjoyed the satisfaction of finally mastering my forgetfulness to conquer this quintessential Puerto Rican dish; my favorite dish, arroz con gandules. In the end, it was actually the easiest meal I’ve ever made and continues to be. Dad swears it’s every bit as tasty as Abuelita’s and says cooking's in my blood because I’m Puerto Rican. I’ll let him be none the wiser. I guess he never noticed the missing pots.