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.