The skeletons that surround me make me smile.  Some hold cigarettes, others pet dogs (in skeletal form, of course), and more daring ones balance baskets of flowers on their hard heads.  It’s the Day of the Dead, Dia de los Muertos, here in Mexico:  a holiday officially celebrated October 31 through November 2 to commemorate the lives of everyone’s loved ones who have passed away.  For these three days gravesides become picnic areas as entire families join to rejoice and remember their loved ones, making sure to offer them their favorite treats, graveside.  But the festivities begin way before that… “Calacas”, or skeletons, adorn every street vendor’s sidewalk offering.   Bright orange cempasuchil (Mexican marigolds) flowers, used by the Aztecs to mourn their dead, are the official floral offering for the dead and are mandatory at every corner florist, and then ...Read on]]>

The skeletons that surround me make me smile.  Some hold cigarettes, others pet dogs (in skeletal form, of course), and more daring ones balance baskets of flowers on their hard heads.  It’s the Day of the Dead, Dia de los Muertos, here in Mexico:  a holiday officially celebrated October 31 through November 2 to commemorate the lives of everyone’s loved ones who have passed away.  For these three days gravesides become picnic areas as entire families join to rejoice and remember their loved ones, making sure to offer them their favorite treats, graveside.  But the festivities begin way before that… “Calacas”, or skeletons, adorn every street vendor’s sidewalk offering.   Bright orange cempasuchil (Mexican marigolds) flowers, used by the Aztecs to mourn their dead, are the official floral offering for the dead and are mandatory at every corner florist, and then of course, there is Pan de Muerto, or Bread of the Dead.

This sweet concoction begins to appear in early October and is seen in all sizes with all sorts of fillings in ever pastry store in town.   Circular in shape with extra dough used on top to resemble bones, it is finished off with a hearty  coating of crunchy sugar.  Inside, you will find a rich, buttery dough, very similar to challah bread.

Pan de Muerto takes center stage in the offerings on altars that families make for their dead (who doesn’t love sweet dough?) alongside those beautiful flowers, packs of cigarettes and bottles of tequila.  If you are lucky, you will be treated to one filled with chocolate, or better yet,  dulce de leche.  That is, if the dead feel like sharing it with you.

Bread haunts me so. I am not supposed to eat it this week (a Passover thing) and so, it teases. And lures. And promises me I can’t live without it.

The scale reconfirms Jewish law: I can live without it (the scale insists for longer than one measly week). The rolls forming on my gut reconfirm that Jewish law and scale are correct (when did this happen?) But the bread, ah the bread, in all its glorious forms is insurmountable torture to go without. There are warm bagels sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds and spread with generous seas of creamy cream cheese or ciabata bread, with its extra chewy crunch on the outside, torn open to reveal those craters of dough forming planet-like surfaces which beckon wild blueberry jam to get trapped and devoured in. And ...Read on]]>

Bread haunts me so. I am not supposed to eat it this week (a Passover thing) and so, it teases. And lures. And promises me I can’t live without it.

The scale reconfirms Jewish law: I can live without it (the scale insists for longer than one measly week). The rolls forming on my gut reconfirm that Jewish law and scale are correct (when did this happen?) But the bread, ah the bread, in all its glorious forms is insurmountable torture to go without. There are warm bagels sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds and spread with generous seas of creamy cream cheese or ciabata bread, with its extra chewy crunch on the outside, torn open to reveal those craters of dough forming planet-like surfaces which beckon wild blueberry jam to get trapped and devoured in. And of course, let’s not forget the French epi loaf with thorns of golden crunch running up and down the captivating baguette like an edible spine. I am shameless with this loaf, leaving intellect behind, notions of carbs and calories and such; I just tear at these spines, ripping whole chunks of epi off their vine and devour them warm and whole, slathering the occasional hunk of butter or brie, if I have self-control or time or either. These are breads I can’t live without.

So, yes, the idea of a boxed cracker called matzo…well, pales in comparison. Don’t get me wrong. I look forward to the initial matzo meeting. There is nothing quite like a whole piece of matzo slathered with butter and a toxic sprinkling of salt. This is how my father taught me to eat matzo and almost anything else: butter and a toxic sprinkling of salt. Butter and salt is how the purists do it, the Israelis, or sabras: the real matzo men (and women). Other ways seem pointless after that. And I’ve tried: egg salad, peanut butter, chopped chicken liver. Some work. Some scream out for the real yeast deal.

I admit then that that first, second, even third piece of matzo was delightful, delicious, a real embracing of my Jewish roots and a straight shot back to my childhood, where, finding matzo in the Latin Catholic country of Venezuela was a feat in itself. But then pieces got stuck in my teeth. And I had to pick them out. And I felt I had eaten cement. Lots and lots of cement with butter. And horribly so, the charoset, that lovely Passover delicacy of dates, figs, apples, nuts and wine, ran out. That stuff does wonders to a piece of matzo. Right up there with the butter. But when I went dry on that, the matzo went awfully dry.

So somehow I found myself traveling to every bakery for every other possible thing one would get at a bakery: truffle mousse at Le Croissant Time, fresh pasta at Doris (strategically placed by their bakery), hazelnut coffee at the bagel shop. I knew this would not end well for me. I understood it was not fair to me. I have no self-control when it comes to food. None. Zero. It is not in my DNA like food and all things food is. Guilt riddles me somewhat, but then that wafting of warm dough sings and dances in my nostrils and I inevitably cave, like I did this Passover, like I did last.

I don’t go crazy on the bread: a fugitive sandwich in a darkened room, a warm bagel incognito in the car on the run. Abstract places for abstract delights. There is no outright celebration of all things yeast, but still, I can’t bear to turn them away, not even for the week. I hope to not have let anyone down: my rabbi, God, my scale. And so I keep the matzo box nearby, just so. And the butter is always soft.

When you are given something called “Friendship Bread,” be wary. It’s not like I was given the actual finished product, I got the dough and a dizzying list of daily instructions with the promise of the finished product. That is when I got extra suspicious. I was told that “Friendship Bread” was an old Amish tradition (this is done as a selling point, I assume) but figured, anything with such a blatantly obvious adjective has got to be bad, right? I mean, for years I walked right by the closest neighborhood sushi (and never went in) because, and only because, it was called Amazing Sushi and everyone knows that anything called Amazing (fill-in-the-blank) has got to be major crap. (I later learned, in a desperately hungry moment of weakness that it is the best sushi in town.) ...Read on]]>

When you are given something called “Friendship Bread,” be wary. It’s not like I was given the actual finished product, I got the dough and a dizzying list of daily instructions with the promise of the finished product. That is when I got extra suspicious. I was told that “Friendship Bread” was an old Amish tradition (this is done as a selling point, I assume) but figured, anything with such a blatantly obvious adjective has got to be bad, right? I mean, for years I walked right by the closest neighborhood sushi (and never went in) because, and only because, it was called Amazing Sushi and everyone knows that anything called Amazing (fill-in-the-blank) has got to be major crap. (I later learned, in a desperately hungry moment of weakness that it is the best sushi in town.) Then there was the traumatizing experience years back visiting an old high school friend who was staying at a hotel in Miami Beach. I had planned a day filled with profound conversation and lounging around a sophisticated pool, and knowing he was staying in the prestigious neighborhood of Bal Harbor, I was equally excited for some pampering. But when I arrived at his hotel, a rinky dink “Quality Inn”, nestled as an afterthought amongst the glorious Fountain Bleu and other equally stunning condominiums, I knew the conversation would be good but the pampering non-existent. (We ended up sneaking into the Fountain Bleu’s pool.)

So here I was given a Ziploc bag with the contents of some sort of fermentation (ahhh, I mean, starter) called Friendship Bread. And believe me, had it not been given to me by my best friend, that friendship would have ended in the trash. There it sat on my counter, testing the plastic it was encased in, simmering and bubbling in its own quiet decomposition that, alongside the list of ingredients and degrees of massaging my photocopied instructions detailed, would promise after ten days to deliver an unforgettable bread, lest I screw the time schedule up.

I’m no good at time schedules so Friendship Bread immediately became a source of stress. I’m also not too neat, so, amongst the clutter of potholders, prescription medicines, and a crazy array of coupons never-to-be-used cut out by my ten-year old daughter (she has a coupon-cutting addiction; we’re working on it) sat the gurgling Ziploc.

And like a crazed woman wondering after she left the house if she turned off the oven or not, I questioned, “Is it day six or day eight? Do I massage (or as the instructions readily put it, “mush”) , let out air, or add a cup of sugar?” These thoughts seemed to consume me throughout my day (I know, my day needs to get more exciting, apparently) and each time I’d rush back home and look at that damn Ziploc bag, it would look pretty much the same.

In all honesty, I lost track of the days with the Friendship Bread, even with the starting date being written in big bold letters on the bag. I just was never good at math or logic or following instructions, and being barricaded into a time scheme with all of the above seemed to short-circuit my culinary instinct. So, I started going with my gut and guessing it was time for a quick rub of the bag, a shake upside down, some milk and sugar, all the while praying that Ziploc would live up to its good ‘ole American reputation and not disintegrate on me, sending the Friendship goop, which had now morphed into a repressed Enemy Bread, all over my cluttered countertop.

Ziploc didn’t disappoint and I am happy to announce neither did the Friendship Bread. After ten (or twelve?) days of huffing and puffing and worrying about nurturing this dough properly, I felt relief when the day came that I’d be able to rid myself of the responsibility by baking it. I swore out loud as my husband is my witness that I would never, ever go through this stress again. And then I baked it. And I tasted it. And I was changed. It was tender and moist, with a slight cinnamon sugar crunch from the coating outside, and it quickly became my best friend, washing all the worrying away and opening the door for a perfect companion to coffee. In the end, the best friendships are worth a little trouble.

Pan Amish:  Una Amistad Que Vale El Fastidio

Cuando te den algo llamado “Pan de Amistad,” ten cuidado. No es como me dieron el producto acabado, sí no, me entregaron la masa y una lista interminable de instrucciones diarias con la promesa del producto acabado. Eso  me puso bien sospechosa. Me aseguraron que el “Pan de Amistad” era una vieja tradición Amish (este es hecho como un punto de venta, asumo) pero juraba que algo con un adjetivo tan descaradamente obvio tiene que ser malo, correcto? Quiero decir, durante años pasaba y no entraba por el sushi del barrio porque, y sólo porque, se llamaba  “Sushi Asombroso” y todos saben que algo que se llame Asombroso tiene que ser una cagada. (Más tarde aprendí, en un momento desesperadamente hambriento donde entré y almorzé en Sushi Asombroso que este es el mejor sushi en la ciudad.) Tambien había la vez, hace años atrás que fui a visitar un viejo amigo que se quedaba en un hotel en Miami Beach. Yo había planeado un día lleno de conversación profunda y tomando sol en una piscina de cinco estrellas, especialmente conociéndo se quedaba en la vecindad prestigiosa Bal Harbor. Pero cuando llegué a su hotel, un edificio sucio y olvidado con el nombre de “Hotel de Calidad” sabía que lo unico bueno sería la conversación.

Así aquí me dieron un bolso de Ziploc con los contenido de alguna clase de fermentación llamado el Pan de Amistad. Y créame, si no me lo había dado mí mejor amiga, aquella amistad habría terminado en la basura. Puse la bolsa en la cocina donde burbujeaba en su propia descomposición, junto con las instrucciones muy detalladas con la lista de ingredientes y grados de masajear la masa durante diez dias, prometíendo resultar en algo inolvidable.

No soy nada bueno con listas ni organización así que el Pan de Amistad inmediatamente se convirtio en una fuente de stress. Como una mujer enloquecida que se pregunta después de que ella dejó la casa si apago el horno o no, pregunté, “Es el día seis o día ocho? ¿Masajeo o añado una taza de azúcar?”  Estos pensamientos parecieron consumirme a lo largo de mi día y cada vez que llegaba a casa y miraba la condenada  bolsa de Ziploc, parecía mas un ejercicio para enemigos que amigos.

Me da mucha felicidad en anunciar que el Pan de Amistad fue un gran exito. ¿Después de diez días de preocupar sobre nutrir esta masa correctamente, sentí el alivio cuando el día vino que sería capaz de liberarme de la responsabilidad horneándolo. Juré en voz alta que nunca pasaría por esta tensión otra vez. Y luego lo horneé. Y lo probé. Y ese pan me cambio. Era suave y humedo adentro, con un crujido de azúcar y canela leve de la capa fuera, y rápidamente se hizo mi mejor amigo, quitando toda mi preocupación y en vez invitandose como mi compañero perfecto para el café. Al final, las mejores amistades merecen dar un poco de problema.

Pan de Amistad de Amish

No use ninguna clase de tazón metálico o cuchara. No refrigerar. Es normal para que la masa haga burbujas, se eleve, y tenga olor desagradable. Cuando el aire entra en la bolsa Ziploc, sólo suéltelo.

Día 1: No haga nada. Este es el día usted recibe la masa. Vaya por la fecha en la bolsa.

Día 2: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 3: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 4: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 5: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 6: Añada 1 taza cada una de harina, azúcar, y leche. Masajear bolsa BIEN y resellar.

Día 7: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar. .

Día 8: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 9: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 10: Siga las instrucciones abajo.

Vierta contenido de la bolsa en un tazón que no sea de metal. Añada 1 ½ taza de harina, 1 ½ taza de azúcar, y 1 ½ taza de leche. Mezcla a fondo con una cuchara de de madera o espátula. Pon la fecha en 4 bolsas de Ziploc. Mida 1 taza de la mezcla en cada uno de las bolsas y sella bien. Consérvese un para usted para poder hacer mas. Reparte los otros tres a amigos junto con instrucciones.

Precalienta el horno a 325 grados. Al restante eche el tazón abajo, añade:

3 huevos ½ cucharilla de bicarbonato de soda

1 taza de aceite 1 ½ levadura en polvo de cucharilla

1 taza chupa ½ cucharilla de sal

1 taza de azúcar 2 tazas de harina

2 cucharillas de canela 1 paquete grande de budín de instante de vainilla

½ cucharilla de vainilla 2 tazas nueces picados (opcional)

Engrase 2 cazuelas de pan grandes. En otro tazón, mezcle ½ taza de azúcar y 1 ½ cucharilla de canela. Espolvoree con las cazuelas de pan con esta mezcla, reservando el suplementario para rociar encima.

Hornee durante 1 hora. Deje que los panes enfrien dentro de las cazuelas por 10 minutos hasta que el pan suelte regularmente de cazuelas. Resulte en el estante de alambre. Hecha el restante de azucar y canela y coma caliente.

Then you had to fight your way through the hummingbirds, lizards, parrots, guacamayas and, of course, Murtle The Turtle, our tenured pet who inconveniently preferred strategically treacherous spots, such as the walkway, to sunbathe its crusty head. None of this was shouting ho-ho-ho, if you know what I mean. Still, the benefits of a December spent 8 degrees north of the equator seemed to far outweigh the ...Read on]]> Growing up in a tropical country during the winter holiday season had its apparent disadvantages for a young child.
Snow, for one, was a misnomer reserved for the obscure North where Santa and many flush-faced giddy elves allegedly worked under a flurry of coveted snowflakes.
The foliage didn’t help set the mood either:
not a pine tree in sight, in fact, my family’s backyard alone was cluttered with trees adorned with sun-drenched fruits like limes, mangoes, and bananas.

Then you had to fight your way through the hummingbirds, lizards, parrots, guacamayas and, of course, Murtle The Turtle, our tenured pet who inconveniently preferred strategically treacherous spots, such as the walkway, to sunbathe its crusty head.
None of this was shouting ho-ho-ho, if you know what I mean.
Still, the benefits of a December spent 8 degrees north of the equator seemed to far outweigh the desperate longings for a Nordic Christmas.
Top on the list was the annual Holiday Commercial, a much-anticipated event where all the local soap opera celebrities crooned about peace and love and the Holy Spirit in a 7-minute spot played incessantly on television during the month of December. Hanukkah never quite made it to the predominantly Catholic airwaves.
Anticipation for this event would commence as early as October, when viewers would begin to wonder what spin the holiday commercial would have.
When December would arrive, everyone (and I mean everyone) gathered and watched as the telenovela icons (who enjoy Supreme Being status in Venezuela) would shed their nightly bouts of runny mascara, lost fortunes and forlorn love and gather in one big happy circle of love and holiday spirit singing about the joys of Baby Jesus and the prosperity promised for the coming New Year.
An impressive imported tree that would make Rockefeller’s look like a key chain ornament, sparkled in the background and big chunky pieces of foam rained down on the celeb fest in attempts to transform the humid climate into one of winter.
I admit I was a telenovela junkie from the early age of about seven.
While my American contemporaries basked in the morally correct episodes of “The Brady Bunch” and “Gilligan’s Island”, I nourished my distorted sense of reality with scandalous classics such as “Crystal” and “Topacio.” I followed all the trials and tribulations of each and every character, knew who was the real sister, who stole whose fortune, and what the hospitalized mummy with the lustrous blonde hair was muttering through her gauze when no one else could understand.
So, to say I was obsessed with these Christmas commercials is really putting it mildly.
Food was often tied in to these lovefests.
After the camera tired of trying to make Eduardo Serrano appear tall or hide Hilda Carrero’s double chin, it would span out to a glorious table loaded with Venezuelan Christmas goodies.
Each dish looked more delicious than the next, from the pineapple-glazed Christmas ham to the steaming Hallaca, a traditional tamale-like specialty wrapped in plantain leaves and stuffed with pork, chicken, capers and raisins.
Displayed up front would be a golden loaf of pan de jamon:
another indispensible item for a Venezuelan Christmas.
As a child I could never eat just one piece of pan de jamon.
The combination of warm sweet dough wrapped with salty ham, briny olives and juicy raisins almost forced me to keep eating, always leaving me happy and very full.
And as much as I adored my soap opera idols, I remember feeling envious of them; not particularly for the honorary role of shedding good cheer to all the Channel 4 viewers, but because of the amazing spread that I believed awaited them after each performance.
I imagined them finishing their carol, brushing off the snowflakes, and devouring all the delights on the table and all the while I’d be trapped watching The “Flinstones”, awaiting their return.
When the Holiday Commercial did finally return, I’d perk up and prep my voice to sing along, catch each excruciating detail of all my favorite and familiar celebrities, and double check the food table to make sure everything was still there.