Rich hues of purple beckon me.  The market in Mexico is full of colors today:  fire orange for zucchini blossoms, crimson red endless mounds of tomatoes, and rich coal-colored piles of avocados that promise a buttery light green inside.  I could gather them all and on most days I do, but today I go for the eggplants- they are the perfect size- nothing too pretentiously large, smooth and shiny with a dark skin as mysterious as the pond in Vermont I’d dive into freely as a child.  These babies are mine.  Today I will make them shine.

I take them home – just two is all I need, and the ritual begins. It is a slow process- I must gently char the outside over my beloved gas stove.  Easing in the smoke that will give my dish its distinctive flavor.   My ...Read on]]>

Rich hues of purple beckon me.  The market in Mexico is full of colors today:  fire orange for zucchini blossoms, crimson red endless mounds of tomatoes, and rich coal-colored piles of avocados that promise a buttery light green inside.  I could gather them all and on most days I do, but today I go for the eggplants- they are the perfect size- nothing too pretentiously large, smooth and shiny with a dark skin as mysterious as the pond in Vermont I’d dive into freely as a child.  These babies are mine.  Today I will make them shine.

I take them home – just two is all I need, and the ritual begins. It is a slow process- I must gently char the outside over my beloved gas stove.  Easing in the smoke that will give my dish its distinctive flavor.   My son watches me in awe and confusion. I am doing exactly what I tell him not to do. I am playing with fire.  But this is different, I guarantee him.  This is aubergine and I am making babaganoush- a favorite Middle Eastern dish of smoked eggplant to be scooped with my freshly baked pita awaiting.

He isn’t buying what I am selling.  The smooth plum-colored skin is getting withered and cracked.  Its hue turning a tarnished black.  Chips of burnt skin fall off revealing a scarred cream interior oozing with shock.  This can’t be good, my son thinks.  This can’t be good.

But I promise him it is, and a mother’s promise is not taken lightly.  I will crush and mince fresh garlic, squeeze tart lime and sprinkle coarse salt and add it to this mix and this will be good. This will be so good.  Like your grandfather’s father ate in the dusty hills of Palestine before there was a state of Israel.  Like your father enjoys on a lazy Sunday afternoon.  This will be good. I will take this withered warrior of an eggplant and make a hero out of it.  I will slice it in half and gently scoop out the smoked pulp.  It will give to my spoon and splat out onto my bowl.  It will look ordinary but it will taste extraordinary.  The flame I’ve gently subjected it to has left it with a magical smoky taste.  And it will dance with those three simple ingredients. If I feel frisky I will drizzle some extra virgin olive oil (like a good Middle Eastern, this is reflex) and my fresh pita will scoop up this goodness and know something else is missing.  One other ingredient I dare have forgotten.

Chopped parsley.

Finely minced.  So as not to interrupt but to add a spicy bite.  Another reflex a sabra’s daughter ought never forget.

And it will be perfect. It will dance in your mouth and your mind will beg for more, your stomach content and dazzled.  All this over purple shine and blurry black and white photographs of forefathers and more forefathers – all of which shared this dish that today, my son, you share.  In the crowded city of Mexico you are instantly at that dusty hill in Eretz Israel.  What a drizzle of olive oil, a squeeze of lime, and an eggplant can do.  I promise you.  I promise you.

Ooooh.  I’m gone.

Zippo.

Not here.

On Holiday.

Right now, if you are reading this, you are probably escaping time with the in-laws.

That’s okay.

I won’t bore you with my travels, just yet.  I’ll wait til I return.  Because quite frankly, I don’t give a damn about a computer at this second.  I’m too busy winding my way down from Madrid to Morocco.  I could be anywhere, really.  I don’t even know myself.  The blessing of a spontaneous family and a car.  Anything can happen, but it all will come with good food. Promise.  More later.

Right now, I leave you with deviled eggs.

They’re easy.  Fun.  And big party favorites.  And really, they are one of those boring items you never get tired of.  Do you get tired of them? Ever? Right?  I mean, if you are feeling stuck, in a deviled-egg midlife crisis, you can ...Read on]]>

Ooooh.  I’m gone.

Zippo.

Not here.

On Holiday.

Right now, if you are reading this, you are probably escaping time with the in-laws.

That’s okay.

I won’t bore you with my travels, just yet.  I’ll wait til I return.  Because quite frankly, I don’t give a damn about a computer at this second.  I’m too busy winding my way down from Madrid to Morocco.  I could be anywhere, really.  I don’t even know myself.  The blessing of a spontaneous family and a car.  Anything can happen, but it all will come with good food. Promise.  More later.

Right now, I leave you with deviled eggs.

They’re easy.  Fun.  And big party favorites.  And really, they are one of those boring items you never get tired of.  Do you get tired of them? Ever? Right?  I mean, if you are feeling stuck, in a deviled-egg midlife crisis, you can always cheat on the traditional recipe and it will be fine:  add chopped fresh herbs such as thyme, chives, or tarragon for a small and tasty shake-up or go all out and throw bacon bits, truffle oil, or anchovies for a more radical change.  They’re all good.  I’m quite old-fashioned when it comes to mine:  give me some straight up deviled eggs and I am one happy queen of the party.

What kind of deviled-egger are you?

I.  Am. A. Foodie.

And then there’s the gym.  Have you  heard of that place?  Horrible.  People go and shvitz like it’s the coolest thing to do with one’s time.  I personally hate all forms of exercise.  My idea of being in a room full of sweaty, bopping people causes classic anxiety.  Just isn’t fun.  And not because they are sweating and bopping, but because they are all a good ten or fifteen years older than me and they are by far better than I am at it.  Stronger.  Resistant.  Firmer.

Beautiful butts abound. Yes, I look. Perhaps it’s surgical.  God, oh god, please let it be surgical.  But maybe not.  Maybe it’s exercise and celery sticks.

I tried that, temporarily, you see.  I subjected myself to such cruelties (exercise and celery sticks) for an interminably long time (two weeks, folks) all in efforts to ...Read on]]>

I.  Am. A. Foodie.

And then there’s the gym.  Have you  heard of that place?  Horrible.  People go and shvitz like it’s the coolest thing to do with one’s time.  I personally hate all forms of exercise.  My idea of being in a room full of sweaty, bopping people causes classic anxiety.  Just isn’t fun.  And not because they are sweating and bopping, but because they are all a good ten or fifteen years older than me and they are by far better than I am at it.  Stronger.  Resistant.  Firmer.

Beautiful butts abound.
Yes, I look.
Perhaps it’s surgical.  God, oh god, please let it be surgical.  But maybe not.  Maybe it’s exercise and celery sticks.

I tried that, temporarily, you see.  I subjected myself to such cruelties (exercise and celery sticks) for an interminably long time (two weeks, folks) all in efforts to fit into my former jean size and restore normalcy.  Then what did I do?  Headed off to Spain to visit my sister and stuff myself freely.  Think croquettes, croquettes, and more croquettes.  Makes perfect sense, right?

And I came back a changed woman.  Not in weight (actually, where could croquettes go but to my muffin top?) but in heart.  A veil was lifted as I realized how absurd I had been surviving on tread mill and fiber, especially when life has such delicious things to offer, like croquettes and malls crammed with larger size jeans.

Ole!

He looked at me with distrustful eyes: I looked like a gringa, after all, and Venezuela, a once open and accepting country, now lived in a climate of great anti-American sentiment. And still, his look locked with mine in a curious way. I stuck out like a sore thumb, I’ll admit, with my fair skin, blonde hair and light eyes, out in a dusty pit stop between the cities of Caracas and Valencia, in a sea of dark-skinned, dark-haired people. My husband and I had stopped for the prerequisite cafecito, a tiny plastic cup of rich caffeine that would curse through our veins until the next pit stop allowed a refill.

I sat in the parked car, watching the men and women saunter towards the goods beckoning at the counter: a box of ...Read on]]>

He looked at me with distrustful eyes: I looked like a gringa, after all, and Venezuela, a once open and accepting country, now lived in a climate of great anti-American sentiment. And still, his look locked with mine in a curious way. I stuck out like a sore thumb, I’ll admit, with my fair skin, blonde hair and light eyes, out in a dusty pit stop between the cities of Caracas and Valencia, in a sea of dark-skinned, dark-haired people. My husband and I had stopped for the prerequisite cafecito, a tiny plastic cup of rich caffeine that would curse through our veins until the next pit stop allowed a refill.

I sat in the parked car, watching the men and women saunter towards the goods beckoning at the counter: a box of cigarettes, a CD, a batido, or fresh fruit juice. My husband waited by the glistening chrome Gaggia coffee machine and I chuckled out loud thinking, this is what is so lovely about this contradictory country: parked in the middle of nowhere sits a luxuriously expensive espresso maker brewing out perfect cup after cup after cup.

And that’s when I saw him, each drawn to the other by our eyes : mine a clear blue, as blue as the sky allows on a perfectly pristine day and his, dark and muddled like fresh mud. His clothes were dirty and ragged, his flip-flops bore a huge hole at the heel and I sat in my air conditioned Land Cruiser with pedicured feet resting comfortably on the dashboard. He walked slowly in front of my car, carrying two plastic yellow buckets filled with something, never once taking his eyes off mine. Two worlds collided in one stare. I wondered what he thought of me, “una princesita yanqui” (a Yankee princess) most likely and immediately I lowered my feet but kept my stare. No, he was up to something, I realized. His gaze was now locked on mine and I detected the tiniest smile. I watched and waited, stealing a quick glance at my husband way over there sipping and purchasing more coffee. He was out of my range. It was just me and this man, whose stare was so dark and hypnotic, I couldn’t help but fall under its spell. He came closer and closer to my closed window and just when I didn’t know whether to be flattered or frightened he bellowed out a loud and proud:

“LA CACHAPA CACHAPA CACHAPA, VENDO LA CACHAPA CACHAPA CACHAPA, CON QUESO DE MANO, TELITA, LA CACHAPA CACHAPA, CACHAPA”

And I knew I was safe. And I knew I was doomed. I had fallen for this scruffy man…and he sold cachapas. Next to arepas, cachapas, golden corn pancakes served with a chunk of fresh white cheese on top, are Venezuela’s most popular snack. Immediately I lowered my window and was greeted by the warm sweet smell of toasted corn pancakes wafting from his yellow bucket. I bought five. The fresh white cheeses he offered (telita, de mano, and guayanes) were so outrageously delicious, I bought them all. I would have taken the man home but my husband had returned by then and, with a shocked look on his face and two cups of coffee, took notice of the mountains of sweet corn and cheese precariously balanced on my lap and gasped:

“Alona, are you all right?”

And I was all right. I was down right great. Because when you park your car in the middle of nowhere, only to get the best cup of coffee in the universe, and you have the good fortune of finding the cachapa man, life, my friends, is good. Life is great.

I celebrated this goodness all in one go, making sandwich upon sandwich of my creamy corn pancakes and their accompanying salty cheeses. The cheese would ooze and give to the heat of the cachapa, making for a delirious experience, and, as the Land Cruiser kicked into drive leaving a trail of dust in its wake, my eyes looked for those of the cachapa man only to find he had already locked gaze with another woman sitting prey in a shiny red Mazda. This was a man of many talents, I thought to myself, as I took another tasty bite of my cachapa and let everything else go.

First the brownies didn’t bake evenly.  No one else could tell.  In fact, all where mesmerized, entranced, absolutely orgasmic over my brownies.  But I knew something was up with Dacor then.  The baked batter leaned in a bit ...Read on]]> There were many hints of his impending betrayal, but, like any woman in love, I chose to look away.  I had been swept off my feet, what can I say, a phrase that would definitely make all my self-sufficient Barnard colleagues shake their heads in disappointment and mutter only this to me: tsk tsk, tsk tsk.  I was in love, maybe not with him, but most definitely with the idea of him: glamour, sophistication, and expensive lust. And we’d been together so many  years, so when  the smallest of signals blinked quietly but straightforwardly at me, I chose to look the other way.

First the brownies didn’t bake evenly.  No one else could tell.  In fact, all where mesmerized, entranced, absolutely orgasmic over my brownies.  But I knew something was up with Dacor then.  The baked batter leaned in a bit to the left on one side and out a bit to the right on the other, as if he hadn’t embraced the batter to cook it, but shaken it in turmoil instead.  I always said I would tolerate no abuse from anyone, particularly to my babies and it was clear to me that my brownies weren’t happy.  But everyone around me seemed so joyful, I didn’t want to spoil anything. So I did what any abused woman would do:  I made excuses for him: it was a bad afternoon, a draft somehow upset him, I’d not cleaned him well enough the last time.   I blamed everything else but him, after all, he was a Dacor oven.

Although I have two kids of my own, all the cakes I make are like my children:  I whip their butter and sugar to fluffy perfection, I sing, and rock and caress their batters as I make them.  Lulu, my red hot mixer can attest to this.  There is enough love placed in those bundts, bars, and layers to make Mother Teresa proud.  So when they kept coming out slightly off, I started building quiet resentment towards him, because as much as I wanted to please him, I knew it wasn’t me or the cake kids.  He’d tell me the same, of course.  He was the provider. Heat was always there.  Convection too.  Whenever I asked, he delivered.  Everything else, according to him, was a figment of my neurotic imagination.  The tension grew between us as I became colder and less responsive to his heat.  He was always so unpredictable, why bother, I’d tell myself.  He acted out during our time together.  First he short-circuited his entire electronic panel and that had to be replaced.  Then he blew a fuse as I broiled some salmon for dinner and the entire oven shut down.  They were all strong messages of rebellion, much more applicable to a teenager than a full grown adult and I was patient.  Very patient.  Had parts repaired, wires changed, insides cleaned.  Gave him what he needed, for the sake of the relationship. But lets not kid ourselves, we had grown apart.

I know what you advocates for Dacor are saying.  That I was using him, that I only wanted him for his temperature.  That I poured so much love into those batters just steps away from him and gave him none of that in return. That I had it coming.  But to you I say this:  the chemistry was never right.  The whole relationship had been an illusion.  From the pompous store in which I purchased him seven years ago, to the sophisticated buttons that always gave me a hard time (damnit what ever happened to knobs?), Dacor and I came from two very different places.

So, it was no surprise to me that, in between my two first big catering gigs, which happened to be back to back, one for Michael Scott Salon and the other for Shrink Rap, Inc., Dacor up and left me.  No warning.  No note.  Nothing.  He allowed me the broiler one last time for my Crostini with Fresh Ricotta, Lime and Mint and then he selfishly checked himself out of the relationship, leaving me to contend with the kids, the house, the parties, everything. The Dacor tech I called for help gruntled and grumbled that these parts where no longer available.  Dacor just stopped making them.  His voice was bristly and heavy with his own issues, I could tell he’d dealt with many a tempremental Dacors, and I had no desire to carry his anger as well, so I let it go at that.

It is a tough thing being left alone.  You’ve got alot to deal with and shoulders are only so strong.  And then there is the whole emotional part of being abandoned. It can be rough, very very rough.  But in this instant, as pissed as hell as I was Dacor had pulled this stunt on me  (what timing man!), there was a part of me that was elated.  Liberated.  Free.  A burden had been lifted as I realized this relationship which I was supposed to adore and be in forever had been severed and I was free to move on.

All my feminists friends out there are still saying tsk tsk, you should have done it first, not waited for him to leave you. And you are right.  But I say what happens next is what mosts matters.  And so far, I’ve been dealing with the abandonment pretty well.  For starters, I pulled off both parties and both were a huge success.  I’ve been gracious to Dacor.  Allowed him to quietly remain as I wait for Donovan, my new Sears buddy to come install the replacement oven.  Donovan should be here any minute and I just know my new oven, maybe not a high pedigree name like Dacor but certainly a reliable hard working one, won’t fight with my batter but will embrace every bit of it.  This kitchen is a kitchen of love.  Otherwise, you’re out of here.

I have a confession to make. I’m not sure it’s the right one to do, this being an upscale [insert giggle] food blog with upscale food followers (right?) but nonetheless, if anything, I strive to be true to myself and my readers and so here it goes: I go to Costco to shop.

Sometimes. Rarely. But sometimes. On occasions maybe more than I should. But I go. Now, to my defense let me remind you all that I live in South Florida: Plantation to be exact, which is not necessarily your haven of food markets and such. Lightly put, this ain’t Santa Monica or Paris, both hosting amazing food markets. When I went to the Symposium for Professional Food Writers at the Greenbrier last April, I met Amelia Saltsman, author of The Santa Monica Farmer’s Market Cookbook ...Read on]]>

I have a confession to make. I’m not sure it’s the right one to do, this being an upscale [insert giggle] food blog with upscale food followers (right?) but nonetheless, if anything, I strive to be true to myself and my readers and so here it goes: I go to Costco to shop.

Sometimes. Rarely. But sometimes. On occasions maybe more than I should. But I go. Now, to my defense let me remind you all that I live in South Florida: Plantation to be exact, which is not necessarily your haven of food markets and such. Lightly put, this ain’t Santa Monica or Paris, both hosting amazing food markets. When I went to the Symposium for Professional Food Writers at the Greenbrier last April, I met Amelia Saltsman, author of The Santa Monica Farmer’s Market Cookbook and I was ready to hop in her suitcase and head home with her.  Unfortunately, the closest thing to a food market for me would be Florida City (a 1 1/2 hour trek), and, most definitely on my way down to the Keys I’d make a wonderfully delicious stop there, but, on a day-to-day basis, driving such a distance for my produce  wouldn’t make much ecological sense anyway, considering I am hauling around in a minivan (at least it’s not a huge truck or something).  But with words such as organic, sustainable, and slow foods bubbling up to the awareness of the American eater, my  Costco confession is not a good thing.

Some culinary folks would be okay with it, even helpful.  Rachael Ray has tips on how to make shopping in warehouse stores less daunting. Other’s, like Oprah, try and encourage us to shop at our local greenmarket. But seriously, there is something about the size of the place that mesmerizes me (there I going being politically incorrect again). Now, I didn’t grow up in this country. As most of you know, I grew up in Venezuela, where, if you wanted bread, you went to the panaderia (bread shop), meat: carniceria (yep, butcher) and fruit, you’d head on to the fruteria (you got this one). Now all of these where situated in the cozy neighborhood of Chacao, a bustling maze of streets in Caracas filled with pedestrians, businesses and cars. It was a five minute walk from my house, and I would usually make the trip with my nanny, Yoli, and our steady rolling iron basket with dune buggy wheels imported from Spain. It was an afternoon of schmoozing with the neighbors, tasting samples of papaya, and picking up some unplanned sweet rolls merely because the had just left the oven and their aroma demanded purchasing.

So flash forward to Plantation, Florida and take pity on me please. It’s a lovely place.  Serene and green.  But nobody walks here. Nobody. In fact, I do believe South Florida, specifically Ft. Lauderdale (which is ten minutes from me) ranked as one of the most dangerous cities for pedestrians. It’s car zone here, whether you like it or not. First of all, it’s just so damn hot most of the time (I mean, we are in mid October and its 96 degrees outside). People like to be sealed in their cars, a/c blasting, music blaring, shut out from the world, entering and exiting their hermetically sealed universe via garage.  So, step out of your suburban home and it would be no surprise to find no one but maybe an occasional aggravated dog walker obligated to be outdoors.

That being said, you can imagine the food situation isn’t optimal. Supermarkets abound, and I visit them regularly, so much so that everyone knows me there quite well. And then there is gleamingly large Costco. Now I am not a fan a warehouses in general, but when they are filled with food, I can’t help myself. And even as I walk in and am greeted by mountains of empty boxes (which shoppers use to pile on their bought goods (hey, at least no plastic bags, that’s good, right?)) I feel a pang of guilt reading what these empty boxes once stored: grapes from Brazil, avocados from Mexico, asparagus from Peru. Once viewed proudly as the United Nations of food, this stuff is deemed bad, bad, bad in the age of locavore, and I should know and do better as a food muse. I should. Except that some of the stuff is lovely. Big and plump and beautifully lovely and it’s not just the lighting of the place, I promise, it’s the actual stuff.

I am a good person, I am. And if I lived somewhere where I could get a plethora of local grown foods, I’d be the first in line (on my bicycle). But I am geographically challenged you see, and so I slip in here on occasion and go mad buying. Of course, why one person needs a box of 25 croissants is beyond me, but I grab it anyhow. This isn’t easy for me you know, and I’m not just talking about pushing the jumbo sized shopping cart and maneuvering through the waves of regulars. The whole experience is filled with conflict as I recall my shopping days in Venezuela and compare them to what I’ve ended up doing now. It’s a sense of failure of sorts, a resigned  ”this is what happens when you end up in the suburbs” pity bit, until I see the nice granny in the corner giving out samples of lobster spread and I jump with a big “ooh” and rush over to grab five crackers. She gives me a dirty look (proper etiquette assumes you are only supposed to take one) but I figure it’s all about excessiveness here, so why the hell not.

I find myself honing in on the tomatoes. I’ve spotted them from a distance and they look lovely- round and plump and just perfect. It’s still October, so, maybe I can convince myself it is a late, late summer crop and thus I can get away with eating them with a clear consience. I know this not to be true but I love tomatoes so. I check the label to see where they’ve come from: Canada. Close enough, right? We’re like brothers, no? I make a mental note to move to California with Amelia and grab the package. As I maneuver around the cheeses I can’t resist the gigantic tub of mozzarella, imported straight from Italy. Ah, Italian mozarrrella. Me piace! How can one say no? I’ve already got the perfect meal in mind: insalata caprese. I’ll use my Portuguese olive oil, some of Mark Bitterman’s fabulous Kauai Guava Smoked Salt from his lovely store, The Meadow and then I’ll top it off with my own home grown basil, born in the USA. Yes, it would be a United Nation’s meal at my house (with our own representative present), and somehow the guilt began to ease as I viewed it more of a celebration of flavors meeting from all corners of the world, ending up in my home for one big, happy and tasty ending.

When I got married almost fourteen years ago my husband and I honeymooned in Thailand. After the prerequisite stop in Bangkok, we ended up on the tiny island of Koh Samui where we saw other equally enamored tourists sweating their way through their first days of matrimony on bicycle rentals, something that may have seemed a good idea in their brochure back in Hackensack, but trust me, in the humidity and heat of Thailand, was not fun.

Mr. and Mrs. Martinez (you know, these were the days when I practiced saying Mrs. Martinez, Mrs. Martinez, Mrs. Martinez in giddy gulps of newness) thought otherwise and rented a motorcycle. It was nothing fancy, we aren’t Harley-types, but rather a dusty red Yamaha dirt bike that we used to zoom along the narrow and crazy island streets, exploring each new ...Read on]]>

When I got married almost fourteen years ago my husband and I honeymooned in Thailand. After the prerequisite stop in Bangkok, we ended up on the tiny island of Koh Samui where we saw other equally enamored tourists sweating their way through their first days of matrimony on bicycle rentals, something that may have seemed a good idea in their brochure back in Hackensack, but trust me, in the humidity and heat of Thailand, was not fun.

Mr. and Mrs. Martinez (you know, these were the days when I practiced saying Mrs. Martinez, Mrs. Martinez, Mrs. Martinez in giddy gulps of newness) thought otherwise and rented a motorcycle. It was nothing fancy, we aren’t Harley-types, but rather a dusty red Yamaha dirt bike that we used to zoom along the narrow and crazy island streets, exploring each new corner of our love vacation and finding an abandoned beach or two in which to celebrate it in.

So, aside from being a wild, crazy and unsafe detour to our now-domesticated life (take Dani to gymnastics, take Jonathan to hip hop, buy milk, call a/c guy), motorcycles hold special meaning to our relationship because it sealed our thirst for adventure and foolishness with fun and free delight. There have been many motorcycle escapades throughout our history together: viewing the pyramids in the Valley of the Kings (Kawasaki blue bike), skimming along gridlocked streets in Caracas, Venezuela (Suzuki, midnight black) and zipping around the impressive Roman Coliseum in the perquisite Italian Vespa (silver).

On our last trip to Spain, we found ourselves zooming around on another Vespa (red) winding amongst the congested streets of Madrid like two free lovebirds with the wind whipping through our helmet-clad hair and my camera bouncing in my hand determined to capture each vicarious moment. We had handed our children over to my brother-in-law and sped off for a two-hour tour of both the city and our lost youth with equal freedom and love. I snapped pictures of our journey along the way. It is an inevitable thing to do while being caressed by the impressive buildings of Madrid. There are too many grandiose statues, prestigious architectural gems, and enchanting balconies that beg digital remembering.

And along the way we found other interesting spots, like a candy shop whose entire display window was covered in the Spanish staple snack food of potato chips (I made my husband do a crazy illegal U-turn to photograph that one). It reminded me of those ball pits I used to take my kids to when they were little: an endless drop into thousands of hundreds of bright colorful balls children would jump into and get lost- my daughter especially loved those (my son would tend to spend hours trying to empty the bin by throwing each and every ball out). I’d sit and watch, feverish with worry; would they get lost in the bottom like quick sand, swallowed by spheres of red, yellow and blue? But they’d always pop up with a gregarious smile, give enough time for a quick second of eye contact with me before diving back down to the depths of their plastic bliss.

Madrid offered a chip pit of sorts, most certainly more tempting to dive into than a kiddie germfest. Of course, no one was found swimming in this national snack. It was more so an outright and proud message of how serious the Spaniards take their chips. We were busy zipping through Madrid so we didn’t stop to enter the store. Still, the chips haunted me so. I had seen them and fallen for them and I now was constantly craving them. It didn’t take much arm-twisting to tell my husband we needed to stop for chips. Stopping for chips meant stopping for beer, and we immediately found the nearest cerveceria (beer bar) for a cold one and a large plate of potato chips.

As I munched I closed my eyes and wondered how the Spaniards managed such a perfect snack. Was it the fact that they were fried in Spanish olive oil? Was it the kind of potato or the perfectly thin slice that allowed for air bubbles to form for that extra, salty crunch? Pontificating on such urgent matters, I took a big gulp of cold beer and a smile filled with adventure and glee grew on my face. This ride had come full circle, and as I looked at my favorite companion shamelessly devour the chips alongside me I realized that youth and adventure where always just a motorcycle ride away.

Patatas fritas españolas: rebelde feliz

Cuando me casé hace casi catorce años mi marido y yo fuimos de luna de miel a Tailandia. Después de la parada necesaria en Bangkok, terminamos en la isla de Koh Samui donde vimos a otros turistas igualmente enamorados sudar como perros con sus alquileres de bicicleta, algo que puede haber parecido una idea buena en el folleto que vieron en casa, pero confía en mí, en la humedad y el calor de Tailandia, no es ninguna diversión.

Sr. y Sra. Martinez (usted sabe, éstos eran los días cuando practiqué el refrán de la Sra. Martinez, Sra. Martinez, Sra. Martinez en tragos vertiginosos de novedad) alquilaron una moto. No era nada grande, no somos de estilo Harley, mas bien era una Yamaha roja en que solíamos zumbar a lo largo de las calles estrechas y locas, explorando cada nueva esquina de nuestras vacaciones de amor y encontrando una playa abandonada o dos donde celebrarlo.

De este modo, aparte de ser un desvío salvaje, loco e inseguro a nuestra vida ahora domesticada (llevar Dani al gimnasio tomar a Jonathan a Hip Hop, comprar leche, llamar plomero), las motocicletas sostienen el sentido especial a nuestra relación porque selló nuestra sed de aventura y tontería con diversión y libertad. Hemos tenido muchas aventuras de motocicleta en todas partes de nuestra historia juntos: viendo las pirámides en el Valle de los Reyes (Kawasaki color azul), navegando a lo largo de calles congestionadas en Caracas, Venezuela (Suzuki, color negra) y disfrutando el bellisimo Coliseo en Vespa (color plata).

En nuestro último viaje a España, nos encontramos zumbando en otra Vespa (color roja) entre las calles llenas de gente de Madrid. Con el viento que volaba por nuestro pelo y mi cámara que brincaba en mi mano, anduvimos determinados de capturar cada momento. Mi cuñado se encargo de los niños y nosotros paseamos dos horas por moto, visitando la cuidad y nuestra juventud con libertad y amor. Tomamos muchas fotos durante nuestra aventura. Esto es una cosa inevitable de hacer siendo magreado por los edificios impresionantes de Madrid. Hay demasiadas estatuas grandiosas, gemas arquitectónicas prestigiosas, y balcones encantadores que piden recordarse digitalmente.

Y a lo largo del camino encontramos otros puntos interesantes, como una tienda de caramelo cuyo escaparate entero fue cubierto con el alimento de bocado básico español de patatas fritas (hice mi marido hacer una vuelta en U ilegal para fotografiar aquello). Esto me recordó de aquellos hoyos de pelota que solía tomar a mis niños cuando estaban chiquiticos: miles de cientos de niños dentro de un mar de pelotas brillantes brincarían y se perdían – mi hija sobre todo lo amaba. Yo me sentaría y miraría, febril con la preocupación; ¿serían perdidos ellos en el fondo como la arena rápida, ingerida por esferas de rojo, amarillo y azul? Pero ellos siempre aparecerían con una sonrisa gregaria, me mirarían rápidamente antes de que saltarian a las profundidades de su felicidad plástica.

Madrid ofreció un hoyo de patatas. Por supuesto, no encontramos nadie nadando dentro de este bocado nacional. Era más bien un mensaje absoluto y orgulloso de que tal seriamente los españoles toman sus patatas fritas. No llegamos a entrar a esa tienda pero paramos en una cerveceria para una fría y un plato grande de patatas fritas.

Probando esta delicia cerré mis ojos y me pregunté como los españoles logran una merienda tan perfecta. ¿Es el hecho que fueron freídos en aceite de oliva español? Pensando en tales asuntos urgentes, tomé un trago grande de cerveza fría y una sonrisa llena de aventura lleno mi cara. Este paseo había terminado con esta merienda y cuando miré a mi compañero favorito desvergonzadamente devorando las patatas fritas junto a mí, realicé que juventud y aventura siempre anda esperando en sólo un paseo de motocicleta.

PATATAS FRITAS DE ACEITE DE OLIVA

(adaptado de Gourmet Magazine, mayo de 1997)

4 patatas (aproximadamente 2 libras)

1 taza de aceite de oliva

Quitar la concha de la papa y picar en rebanadas muy delgadas. Cubrir en agua fria. Seca las rebanadas.

Calienta el aceite en un sartén grande sobre fuego medio alto. Trabajando en hornadas de 8 a 10 rebanadas, fría patatas, girando un par de veces, hasta que esten doradas, 1 1/2 a 2 minutos. Transfiere las patatas fritas con una cuchara grande para drenar y rociar con sal de mar.

Las patatas fritas pueden ser hechas 2 días delante y guardadas en un contenedor hermético.

A couple of posts ago I declared I’d be focusing on fruits and veggies over the summer.  I’ve been sweating a bit voraciously ever since I said that.  Don’t get me wrong:  I dig fruits and vegetables.  But I have a hard time with planning and commitment.  Such announcements always bite me in the butt.  I know the scheduling goddesses that created the concept did so in efforts to relieve stress and remove chaos, but in my warped head, it seems to invite the two.

Night after night vegetables and fruit have bounced in my psyche.  Florida has already nose-dived into disgustingly humid weather and apocalyptic afternoon thunderstorms, typical summer behavior, so, of course, I have tomatoes, the cliché of summer produce, bopping my eyes in REM sleep.  Plum, roma, teeny, tiny grape ones, distorted and now-overly ...Read on]]>

A couple of posts ago I declared I’d be focusing on fruits and veggies over the summer.  I’ve been sweating a bit voraciously ever since I said that.  Don’t get me wrong:  I dig fruits and vegetables.  But I have a hard time with planning and commitment.  Such announcements always bite me in the butt.  I know the scheduling goddesses that created the concept did so in efforts to relieve stress and remove chaos, but in my warped head, it seems to invite the two.

Night after night vegetables and fruit have bounced in my psyche.  Florida has already nose-dived into disgustingly humid weather and apocalyptic afternoon thunderstorms, typical summer behavior, so, of course, I have tomatoes, the cliché of summer produce, bopping my eyes in REM sleep.  Plum, roma, teeny, tiny grape ones, distorted and now-overly priced boutique Ugly tomatoes (the kind no one wanted until they were written up).  Of course, tomatoes don’t sit well with my conscience anymore.  As much as I adore them, I can’t help connect them with overworked, mistreated immigrant farmers, shedding every ounce of sweat and money so that I can enjoy a caprese salad whenever I want.  Way to ruin the mood.  So tomatoes are out for the blog. For now.

…But not quite.  I just can’t disconnect from them that easily.  Yes see, I love tomatoes.  And, as you read this, I am in Spain.  Yes, Spain.  A place that is so comfortable with their produce that they simply showcase it as a dish to enjoy:  take one succulent tomato, slice in half, squeeze generously over one slice of garlic-rubbed, grilled bread, then go ahead and massage it on there real good.  More.  More.  More.  Okay.  Drizzle the whole darn thing with extra virgin olive oil and a sprinkling of coarse sea salt and, voila!  There you have it.

This is my kind of eating.  Simple, satisfying and perfect.  And yet, right now, I am traveling 400 kilometers of Spanish road to make my way for a much-anticipated reservation at Mugaritz.  Make that 420 kilometers.  I have no sense of direction so I know I just missed my stop.  Mugaritz is the restaurant of the famed Chef Andoni Luiz Aduriz who acquired his culinary skills under careful tutelage of Gastro-Science Guru Chef Adriá from El Bulli.  So I can’t imagine what he’ll do with a tomato there, but I can guarantee I’ll try it and let you know.  And chances are I won’t be able to duplicate that kind of high-tech science in my kitchen; another reason to celebrate the simplicity of a good squeeze.

Un Buen Aprieto

Cuando comencé el blog en español declaré que me concentraría en hablar sobre frutas y vegetales a lo largo del verano. He estado sudando vorazmente desde que dije esto. No se confundan: adoro las frutas y verduras. Lo que me cuesta un poquito es la idea de planificación y compromiso. Las diosas de orden que crearon el concepto de planificación lo hicieron en esfuerzos para aliviar la tensión y quitar el caos, pero en mi cabeza alborotada, parece invitar a los dos.

Noche tras noche ideas de frutas y verduras me robaban el sueño. Con la llegada del verano en Florida ha descendido la humedad insoportable y las tormentas de tarde apocalípticas.  Pero tambien, por supuesto, hay tomatoes. Pequenos, grandes, Roma, uva, y hasta los famosos feos Floridianos (Ugly Tomato).

Admito sentirme un pelo incomoda añorando los tomates. Tanto como los adoro, no logro quitar imagenes de los agricultores inmigrantes maltratados e agotados por tanto trabajo para que yo pueda disfrutar de una ensalada caprese siempre cuando quiera. Si saben como arruinar el momento. Asi que, por los momentos, le dare un descanzo a los tomatoes en el blog.

…Pero no completamente. Es que no logro desconectarme de ellos tan fácilmente. Sí ven, amo tomates. Y, cuando ustedes lean esto, estare en España. Sí, España. Un pais tan cómodo con sus productos que simplemente los celebran en su forma mas sencilla: tomen un tomate suculento, piquenlo en la mitad, aprietenlo sobre una rebanada de pan rozado por ajo, dandole un masajito de jugo de tomate al pan. Siga. Más. Más. Más. Bien. ¡Termina con un llovizne de aceite de oliva y una rociada de sal marina y, voila! Allí lo tiene.

Este es mi clase de la comida: simple y perfecto. Y aunque ahora mismo, mientras ustedes lean esto, viajo 400 kilómetros por territorio español hacia mi muy esperada reservación en Mugaritz (hazlo 420 kilómetros. No tengo ningún sentido de dirección y seguramente pase mi salida. Mugaritz es el restaurante del chef famoso Andoni Luiz Aduriz, quien adquirió sus habilidades culinarias bajo la tutela cuidadosa del Gurú de Alta Cocina Espanola, Ferrán Adriá del Bulli. No puedo imaginar lo que hará con un tomate allí, pero puedo garantizarles que lo intentaré y les avisaré. Y las posibilidades que no seré capaz de duplicar aquella clase de la ciencia de alta tecnología en mi cocina son bastante altas; otra razón para celebrar la simplicidad de un buen apretón.