Since losing my mother nine years ago, I find myself drawn to things that remind me of her and her rich, warm Puerto Rican culture: The images of palm trees that seem to adorn every towel and shower curtain in home decorating departments, the energetic strains of the salsa and merengue music that float out of my car windows into the lush Vermont woods I drive through every morning and evening, and the smells of traditional Latino food that I have begun to prepare - all speak to me at a genetic level. It is the cuisine, though, that brings back the strongest memories of my Puerto Rican mother and makes me long for her languid island home.
I grew up in 1960's New Jersey as the youngest of five children with a mother who was of the Peg Bracken's I Hate to Cook Book generation. Any dinner that could be made in one pot and in massive quantities was her kind of meal. With seven mouths to feed I could hardly blame her, but it made for some hideous casseroles that forced us to sit at the table until we finished eating. Every once in awhile, Mom would prepare a Puerto Rican dish, a traditional Dávila family recipe.
Normally she would drag me to the supermarket with an air of "grab those instant potatoes off the shelf and get me the hell out of here," but on those occasions when she made Chili Con Carne, Arroz Con Pollo, or on really special occasions, Paella, she would spend hours in the produce aisle choosing just the right tomato or making a special trip to the butcher for fresh chicken. She would spend an entire afternoon in the kitchen, crushing fresh spices with un pilón, and simmering, always something simmering on the stove, filling the entire house with the intoxicating smells of my abuela's kitchen in Bayamón, Puerto Rico.
I would quietly sit on the little footstool in the corner of the kitchen, afraid to disturb my mother's culinary dance with my presence. I couldn't rectify this “chef mother” with the rushed and harried “short order cook Mom” I was accustomed to. She would normally be bustling around at the last minute, short-tempered and wanting to get it over with, barking orders at me to set the table or call my brothers down, or wash my hands. This mother would sing softly in her beautiful alto voice, melodic songs of the Caribbean, her skirt swaying back and forth as she moved between the stove and the sink, the sink and the cutting board. Intoxicated by the smells, I would eventually creep from my corner and convince my mother into feeding me spoonfuls of her creations, feeling privileged that I was getting a preview before my siblings.
Article comments
1 - diana hartman
i'm no cook by any stretch, but i loved your story and i can't wait to try your mother's recipe...it looks like something i might be able to make right!