When I want to fall in love I go to Mercado La Viga.  Because there are fish guts on the floor and the sweet scent of questionable oil penetrates, infiltrates, becomes you, I fall in love.  It’s not the quantity of fish that gets my heart rat tat tatting, no, I am a market veteran and I’ve seen plenty more.  I’ve lived Mercado de la Venta in Madrid, Spain, where three floors-worth of fish and seafood beckons you.  This can’t stand a flame next to that kind of seafood seriousness.  Mercado La Viga in Mexico City is only eight or ten aisles worth at most…maybe.  What gets you skipping (over the fish guts) are the ‘restaurants’ lining the outskirts of the vender’s stalls.

The ladies and gentlemen of these establishments stand vigilant, peering in and out of the aisles and beckon ...Read on]]>

When I want to fall in love I go to Mercado La Viga.  Because there are fish guts on the floor and the sweet scent of questionable oil penetrates, infiltrates, becomes you, I fall in love.  It’s not the quantity of fish that gets my heart rat tat tatting, no, I am a market veteran and I’ve seen plenty more.  I’ve lived Mercado de la Venta in Madrid, Spain, where three floors-worth of fish and seafood beckons you.  This can’t stand a flame next to that kind of seafood seriousness.  Mercado La Viga in Mexico City is only eight or ten aisles worth at most…maybe.  What gets you skipping (over the fish guts) are the ‘restaurants’ lining the outskirts of the vender’s stalls.

The ladies and gentlemen of these establishments stand vigilant, peering in and out of the aisles and beckon you:

“Empanadas empanadas empanadas de cazon, de pulpo, de pescado, los camarones camarones, sopa de marisco fresco fresco fresco vengan señores vengan!”

I hear their call and I am in a trance.  I don’t even want to buy fish. I want to eat.

Husband is a willing partner-in-crime and together we pick the perfect dirty neon orange plastic chairs to sit in and be served.  Mind you, there is dirt.  Flies.  Questionable open spicy containers on the table.  I could get violently ill.  There’s no joking around when it comes to seafood.  But I see the lady frying my empanadas right in front of me.  I see the family of four slurping their piping hot soups (‘oh my  what soup is that I must have it’, I demand to Husband).  And everyone looks so happy. And safe.  And content.  And even though I am the only blue-eyed fair-skinned guerita around, I am one of them, I know I am one of them and nothing will happen but good things, nothing but good.  So the waiter senses my longing to fit in and willingly complies.

‘Sopa de mariscos,’ he proclaims, when I ask about the family dish.

‘Empanada de pulpo,’ octopus empanada, he promises me when I point at the lady frying with a smile.

‘Tostada de ceviche de pescado,’ he repeats, when I order on impulse a favorite.

Husband smiles and meekly nods his head.  He is enamored by this seafood-madwoman.  He digs me like this.

And together we quietly wait.

The empanada arrives first.  The one stuffed with octopus.  It’s like no other empanada I’ve had before.  The Mexicans have managed to Mexicanize it and raise my expectations of this stuffed fried patty to a whole new level.  Now I am doomed.  Every other empanada I have will never live up to this one.  I know it.  They have just ruined me.

It is sliced.  Sliced!  An empanada (my first traditional thought of course being, how dare they slice an empanada)!

But no. These guys are pros. They know what they are doing.  They have sliced it, allow the rich broth of octopus and tomatoes to steam and they have placed thick slices of creamy avocado, spicy pickled onion and aromatic cilantro inside. Then a hefty dollop of mayonnaise seals the deal.  They have done this brilliantly and these flavors are all having a party before they’ve reached my mouth.  I can splash some spicy sauce on if I care to, there are several bottles to choose from.  Or a squeeze of lime- a prerequisite plastic bowl filled with eager juicy limes sits on my table.  Or add more chopped raw onion.  The choices are endless.  The power is mine.  See why this is love?

And we are quiet, Husband and I.  Because these flavors require us to be so.  We are dazzled with each bite.  Empanada quickly goes.  Tostada de ceviche wolfed down too.  And then the soup arrives- exploding with the seafood we quickly visited in the stands moments before.  It is sublime.  We are stuffed beyond recognition and then I see a tiny, dented cardboard sign swinging in the wind… what is that it reads?

Husband looks worried and excited.  There she goes again, he thinks to himself.  I know that spark in her eye, he assures himself.  He is falling in love with me all over again.
“Cocazo de camaron?” I question out loud, and instantly, it is mine.  The waiter says it will soon be mine- shrimp doused in shredded coconut and deep fried. Just minutes away.  Minutes is all we have to reboot our brains to eat more.  And we wait. We are stuffed but eagerly, excitedly, we wait.

And when the cocazo de camaron arrives, it too changes us forever.  It will become the highlight of the day.  The essence of this seafood extraordinaire moment.  These are no ordinary shrimps. These babies are on steroids- about 5 inches long and coated in freshly shredded coconut (this is no packaged coconut stuff, this is the real deal.) They are delicious on so many different levels I feel dizzy just savoring them.  Fresh ocean, sweet water, crunch coconut.  I am in love.

The family of four looks at us and smiles.  We’ve ordered triple what they have but our grins are all the same.  We share this moment on plastic chairs, dirty floor and delicious seafood.  I pull off the last head of my shrimp and ram its sweet body in my mouth.

“Buen provecho,” the matriarch of the group blesses me with good appetite, making me feel like one of her own as I chomp away.  “Buen provecho.”

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.

It is impossible to lose weight in Mexico.  I’ve tried all sorts of things: increase salad intake, exercise regularly, ignore tight pants.  But the food here is too delicious:  it draws you in like a good book you never want to put down.  You cannot put down.  And so I’ve learned to live with tight jeans and I run the extra mile so that the guilt is less, or the appetite is more, I don’t know anymore.

There’s a simple dish that’s captivated my heart. It is given to all the children in Mexico as a staple side dish.  Some folks go for rice, in Mexico, it’s Fideos Secos.  They are tiny pasta pieces- think vermicelli chopped into ½ inch pieces.  But where one would suffice with butter and salt for these babies, the Mexican’s take it to the umpteenth of ...Read on]]>

It is impossible to lose weight in Mexico.  I’ve tried all sorts of things: increase salad intake, exercise regularly, ignore tight pants.  But the food here is too delicious:  it draws you in like a good book you never want to put down.  You cannot put down.  And so I’ve learned to live with tight jeans and I run the extra mile so that the guilt is less, or the appetite is more, I don’t know anymore.

There’s a simple dish that’s captivated my heart. It is given to all the children in Mexico as a staple side dish.  Some folks go for rice, in Mexico, it’s Fideos Secos.  They are tiny pasta pieces- think vermicelli chopped into ½ inch pieces.  But where one would suffice with butter and salt for these babies, the Mexican’s take it to the umpteenth of flavor:  slowly cooking them in a beef and tomato broth that gently is absorbed in each tiny noodle, packing it with a rich meat and tangy tomato punch.

That would make me happy.  Just writing about it already does.  But this is not enough for a Mexican palate, not even a child’s.  It is missing its crown, a crown often worn in Mexico cuisine:  thick slices of creamy avocado, followed by a drizzle of cream and strips of the irreplaceable Oaxaca cheese.  Now the dish is complete.  Rich, comforting, and truly Mexican, I could eat bowlfuls of this for supper.  But wait, it is only a side dish.  More goodies await.  Waistline sighs.  Soul smiles.

Puddles of red velvet cake cookies swell in the small, yet expensive oven.  “Oooh, you have a Mabe,” all the upper-class Mexican housewives crooned when I first moved here and showed off my kitchen and apartment.  “Nothing but the best, Mabe,” they continued, reasserting my ignorance on the subject of Mexican kitchen appliances.  I’ve heard of General Electric, KitchenAid, Viking and Dacor but Mabe, whose name screams out the fear, “maybe???” Never.

Mabe and I weren’t friends from the get go.  She was too small.  Too simplistic.  Too foreign.  Fahrenheit was out the window, Mexico being a Celsius land,  I had to contend with the concept of baking in unknown numbers.  I felt like a lonely American.  Luckily, there are all sorts of apps for lonely Americans and Kitchen Converter is no doubt a very popular one.

Next, there was turning the ...Read on]]>

Puddles of red velvet cake cookies swell in the small, yet expensive oven.  “Oooh, you have a Mabe,” all the upper-class Mexican housewives crooned when I first moved here and showed off my kitchen and apartment.  “Nothing but the best, Mabe,” they continued, reasserting my ignorance on the subject of Mexican kitchen appliances.  I’ve heard of General Electric, KitchenAid, Viking and Dacor but Mabe, whose name screams out the fear, “maybe???” Never.

Mabe and I weren’t friends from the get go.  She was too small.  Too simplistic.  Too foreign.  Fahrenheit was out the window, Mexico being a Celsius land,  I had to contend with the concept of baking in unknown numbers.  I felt like a lonely American.  Luckily, there are all sorts of apps for lonely Americans and Kitchen Converter is no doubt a very popular one.

Next, there was turning the darn thing on!  In the States, with my uber-spacious Dacor oven, all I had to do was turn the lever and, voila!  Beauty will beep when reached the appropriate Fahrenheit temperature!  With Mabe I encountered a whole other beast:  the gas beast.  I had to have the building’s maintenance man, Javier, come show me how it’s done.  Mabe wouldn’t come to life for me and I was positive she was broken.

Javier dutifully arrived in his navy blue jumpsuit and his friendly smile and didn’t even give me the courtesy of tinkering with his accomplice.  Mabe just turned on straight away.

“How’d you do that?”  I demanded, slightly hurt and fully shocked.

“Just like this,” he patiently showed me, turning Mabe on again.

I felt frustrated that the oven responded to him and not to me.

“Just leave the door ajar for five minutes before you close it.  That way it will be sure not to go off,” Javier instructed, making me realize the trick to the gas oven.

“Ahhhh, the door has to be open for the oven to ignite,” I declared unintelligently.

Javier stared.  I think it was polite pity that cast over his face.

“Si, señora,” he answered dryly.

So Mabe and I were off to a bumpy start but I didn’t lose faith either way.  I was an avid baker in Florida and I’d continue to do so in Mexico City, Mabe by my side.  We were going to have a beautiful relationship, whatever the price.

The price took several burnt cakes, several flattened cakes, several undercooked cakes, and several stuck and smeared cakes.  I can’t particularly pin the blame solely on Mabe; after all, I am living in Mexico City, which boasts an altitude of  7,349 feet.  Baking gets wacky and frazzled way up here.  But as the proud and stubborn baker that I am, I can proclaim, as my red velvet cake cookies puff gently inside Mabe’s tender embrace, that the road is getting less bumpy and more and more tasty.

A pair of tight ass jeans clings to this gut, swollen in delight and trepidation.  I came to Mexico to cook but all I do is eat.  An angel has descended upon my shores:  she is sweet and frail and oh so quiet.

Oh so quiet.

She is, as it turns out, a chef.  A chef willing and dying to please.  Me.  Her señora, as she calls me.

I am in luck.

I am in awe.

I am totally beside myself.

Out from the pristine kitchen (she keeps this way) come fabulous combinations of her native Mexico:  chiles en nogada, fideos secos (served with ripe avocado and a drizzling of crema), sopa de Nogales, sopes, and tinga.  I eagerly eat it all in glee and she quietly (for she knows no other way) awaits my response, my reaction, my amazement, which always feels understated in the ...Read on]]>

A pair of tight ass jeans clings to this gut, swollen in delight and trepidation.  I came to Mexico to cook but all I do is eat.  An angel has descended upon my shores:  she is sweet and frail and oh so quiet.

Oh so quiet.

She is, as it turns out, a chef.  A chef willing and dying to please.  Me.  Her señora, as she calls me.

I am in luck.

I am in awe.

I am totally beside myself.

Out from the pristine kitchen (she keeps this way) come fabulous combinations of her native Mexico:  chiles en nogada, fideos secos (served with ripe avocado and a drizzling of crema), sopa de Nogales, sopes, and tinga.  I eagerly eat it all in glee and she quietly (for she knows no other way) awaits my response, my reaction, my amazement, which always feels understated in the enormity of flavors I dance in.

The other day she produced a soup of warm, green silk.

“What is this?” I asked, bemused and excited.

“Sopa de Aguacate,” she muttered, altering my crusted vision of avocado being only a salad item.  “Espero le guste, mi señora” she continued, thirsty for my approval.

The bowl was licked clean in a matter of minutes, its content once filled with elegance, creaminess, and intoxicating delight.  I asked for more and got some, all the while cursing my taste buds for being so alert (this will definitely cost me on the jean-tightness factor…) The soup was divine, delicious, memorable, enjoyed in the peace and quiet and cleanliness that realms in my Mexico home these days.  We are both pleased with each other.  My enemy remains a pair of stubborn jeans.

I am exhausted.  Drained.  Beat.  Just baked a cake:  Golden Yellow with Fudge Frosting, Grandma’s Fudge Frosting.  It’s the antithesis of a Cordon Bleu creation:  sloppy, uneven, crumbly as hell.  I slapped on the frosting, which was decadently swimming in way too much butter.  It slipped and skidded along the crevices and craters left on my imperfect cake.

Here’s the best part: the secret of all secrets – is that I was thrilled baking this cake, happy stirring its batter, goop flying out in between conversations with Daniela and Jonathan, who watched and helped along the way.  Eggs were cracked and dribbled, flour was stirred and spilled, and somewhere along the line even an entire glass of red wine was dropped and shattered.  But that’s okay.  Wine and glass got cleaned up and a new one poured.  And baking continued, right ...Read on]]>

I am exhausted.  Drained.  Beat.  Just baked a cake:  Golden Yellow with Fudge Frosting, Grandma’s Fudge Frosting.  It’s the antithesis of a Cordon Bleu creation:  sloppy, uneven, crumbly as hell.  I slapped on the frosting, which was decadently swimming in way too much butter.  It slipped and skidded along the crevices and craters left on my imperfect cake.

Here’s the best part: the secret of all secrets – is that I was thrilled baking this cake, happy stirring its batter, goop flying out in between conversations with Daniela and Jonathan, who watched and helped along the way.  Eggs were cracked and dribbled, flour was stirred and spilled, and somewhere along the line even an entire glass of red wine was dropped and shattered.  But that’s okay.  Wine and glass got cleaned up and a new one poured.  And baking continued, right up to its messy end where I placed the whole concoction in the refrigerator (to let Grandma’s Fudge set a bit)- smearing and dripping fudge bits on the side of the fridge along the way.

In ten minutes we will sample our Golden Cake and I bet it will be good…so good…way better than any praline or mousse or Opera I made with panic to detail, precision and fancy fussing.  This one here’s a homemade messy mess, like the wine, like the conversations, like our lives:  all the tastier, all the better!

He was the highlight of my afternoons in fourth grade.  I’d rush into our house in Venezuela after what seemed an interminable day at school and head straight for the television, turning on one of the four channels available.

¡Oh! Y ahora, ¿Quién podrá defenderme?

This was the quintessential cry of distress heard (‘And now, who will be able to defend me?) before the superhero of the day, El Chapulin Colorado (The Red Grasshopper) would burst through a wall or jump from a window, shouting:

“¡Yo! ¡El Chapulín Colorado!”

El Chapulin Colorado was a shlumpy superhero- flabby, with a slight potbelly, and sporting a ridiculous red costume with cape and bumbling antennas.  On his chest a big yellow heart was emblazoned with the letters “CH” for Chapulin.

Not the glamorous sleek look of Batman.

Nor the agility of Spiderman.

Or definitely not the bulging muscles of ...Read on]]>

He was the highlight of my afternoons in fourth grade.  I’d rush into our house in Venezuela after what seemed an interminable day at school and head straight for the television, turning on one of the four channels available.

¡Oh! Y ahora, ¿Quién podrá defenderme?

This was the quintessential cry of distress heard (‘And now, who will be able to defend me?) before the superhero of the day, El Chapulin Colorado (The Red Grasshopper) would burst through a wall or jump from a window, shouting:

“¡Yo! ¡El Chapulín Colorado!”

El Chapulin Colorado was a shlumpy superhero- flabby, with a slight potbelly, and sporting a ridiculous red costume with cape and bumbling antennas.  On his chest a big yellow heart was emblazoned with the letters “CH” for Chapulin.

Not the glamorous sleek look of Batman.

Nor the agility of Spiderman.

Or definitely not the bulging muscles of Superman.

Of course, El Chapulin Colorado was a parody of all superheroes, but as a nine-year old, I didn’t quite get that.  What I got was the tales of a real human being who dressed in a ridiculous outfit and was blessed with innumerable luck, somehow managing to save the day ending each episode with his trademark words of wisdom:

¡No contaban con mi astucia! (You didn’t count on my shrewdness!)

He was flawed and I loved him for it.

I try to explain the wonders and joys of watching this show to my nine-year old.  I find it a trying process.

“What do you mean you only had four channels?” (And so it begins.)

“No special effects? (Big hazel eyes fill with disappointment.)

“But what does he do?  What does he do?” my son insists.  There must be some heroic trait I can cough up to attribute to my beloved Chapulin Colorado but the only one I can think of is how incredibly hard I’d laugh watching that show.  Chapulin lacks the proper curriculum for a kid from 2012, I presume.

Jonathan remained unimpressed.

We were walking around the marketplace the other day and came across a vendor selling a daily Mexican snack, roasted grasshoppers.

I knew this was my chance.

“This is Chapulin Colorado!” I proudly declared.

“Huh?” Jonathan answered, stopping dead in his tracks.  His innocent look instantly glazed with shock, disgust, and, (I dare you not to find this in any nine-year old boy presented with this situation)…curiosity.

I knew I had him.

“Yes, this is “El Chapulin Colorado” – he’s a super hero dressed up as the Mexican red grasshopper.

The lesson would not be complete without a full demonstration so I quickly asked the lady for a bagful of chapulines.

“Here, I dare you try one,” I coaxed.

Jonathan seemed intrigued that a bug had become my favorite childhood superhero.  Suddenly, El Chapulin Colorado became worthy of his interest.

“Okay,” he said, never turning down a dare.

Eyes wide and mouth even wider, Jonathan grabbed a tiny, dried up insect and popped it in his mouth producing a loud crunch crunch.

I waited, wondering if this would improve or destroy my case with Chapulin.

“Hmmmm!  It’s good,” he announced, grabbing another and another.

“I still don’t know why they’d name a show after it, but these are yummy!”

This was as good as it was going to get for me.  Better still, because Jonathan spent the rest of that afternoon munching away on his new snack and explaining to his sister and whoever else would listen that these dried up dudes were mom’s favorite superhero.

¡No contaban con mi astucia!

My grandparents would stare at me from dusty, chipped frames occupying the top of the heirloom mahogany furniture piece strategically placed in the entrance hallway of my childhood house in Venezuela.  Grandma Agnes, my mother’s mother, drew me the most with her mysterious smile and bright blue eyes that bore through the aged photograph creating a luminous space around her. She sat on a bench on a porch somewhere during summertime when it was lush and sunny, Vermont, perhaps?  Or maybe her native Philadelphia?  I’ve no clue.  In the photograph she is close to the age she died, her early 70’s, and I suspect this was one of the few times my family shared with her, assuming I was there.  I would have been a toddler wreaking havoc on the other side of that porch.

Truth be told, the only memory ...Read on]]>

My grandparents would stare at me from dusty, chipped frames occupying the top of the heirloom mahogany furniture piece strategically placed in the entrance hallway of my childhood house in Venezuela.  Grandma Agnes, my mother’s mother, drew me the most with her mysterious smile and bright blue eyes that bore through the aged photograph creating a luminous space around her. She sat on a bench on a porch somewhere during summertime when it was lush and sunny, Vermont, perhaps?  Or maybe her native Philadelphia?  I’ve no clue.  In the photograph she is close to the age she died, her early 70’s, and I suspect this was one of the few times my family shared with her, assuming I was there.  I would have been a toddler wreaking havoc on the other side of that porch.

Truth be told, the only memory I have of Grandma Agnes is of a visit she made to the hospital when I was three.  I remember being afraid, I recall a thick needle stuck in my foot and the glass bottles of whatever they were giving me, IV fluid for my dehydration caused by a stomach flu I suspect,  going clink, clink, clink.  I was in a room, or a hallway or some place that was a pace away from the bathroom and my nana, Pura, whose hand I clutched with a deathly grip, begging me to release her for one minute so she could pee.  ‘I’ll be right there, I’ll be right back’, she promised, but still that served as no consolation for a terrified little girl who continued to grasp tightly, disregarding any bladder needs.

And there was grandma Agnes. On a rare visit to Venezuela to see her long lost daughter (that bohemian, uncontrollable gal who ran off to South America to marry the strange Israeli man). Agnes had come.  Down the hall of the hospital I saw her walking towards me.  She wore a celeste dress draped with a finely knit white cardigan and as her slow shuffle got closer to my panicked self, I noticed a warm smiled coated her face instantly making me feel safe and soothed.

This is all I remember of my mother’s mother.  This and that framed photograph waiting to fall from termite damage.  My other grandparents all passed away before I was born and so the only memory of them lie frozen in those three images next to Grandma Agnes.  It is of another time, another place, someone else’s memories.

But not my husband.  He explodes with memories of his grandparents.  They are woven into the fabric of his youth:  his abuelo Pauxides taking him to the cockfights in Curarigua, his abuela Koko trying to tame a rambunctious and daredevil child who would be dropped at her doorstep for the summer in Barquisimeto, no questions asked.  And then there is his father’s mother, abuela Margarita, and her simple but illustrious grace.  Her fervent dedication to her children, her insistence on them applying themselves and improving themselves through education, something she was never privy to.  Her sons were good listeners and went on to become doctors and engineers.

And of course, there were stories of Abuela Margarita’s cooking.  Wastefulness being a pet peeve of hers as a result of the hard times she became accustomed to during her married life, Margarita would produce memorable dishes with whatever was in the fridge.  My husband  lost his abuela years and years ago, but his eyes still tear up as if he was still in her kitchen describing her preparing her meals.

“Breakfast was the best” he always claims, that same mischievous juvenile spark abuela was subjected to bouncing off his eyes.  And then he delivers. On any night where we’ve had pasta we know we are in for a Margarita breakfast treat the next day.  It may not be the most glamorous of foods, but Abuela Margarita’s Spaghetti Tortillas are easy and sure crowd pleasers.

My husband does just as his Abuela Margarita did… a bunch of spaghetti, a slew of eggs, and an assortment of whatever goods he finds in the fridge:  in our case it is always several kinds of cheeses, loads of parsley, chopped meats (ham, or salami works great) and any vegetable you have left (mushrooms and peppers work fabulously).  Lots of freshly ground pepper is a Martinez must and fast cooking at a high heat so the pasta is sure to get crunchy on the outside is the secret.

We sit down to this meal and the table fills with crazy stories and funny tales of the Martinez family.  We are recently moved into our home in Mexico.  There are no photographs on the walls or on a mantle to stare at and try to create memories with.  The images of the Martinez grandparents are loud and clear, resonating from my husband on to his children, who chomp happily on Abuela Margarita’s signature dish and beg their dad for one more tale about her.

My mother’s terrycloth robe appears in my thoughts every morning.  If my eyes were to see such a thing today, draped on a dummy, let’s say, I’d believe it to be horrendous:  a putrid mocha-colored sea of fuzziness, with a plain beige belt strap and a black trim.  I can’t think of any skin tone that would benefit from it, and most certainly not my mother’s with her pale skin and salt and pepper hair.  So not her color.

This was a sophisticated and fine lady we’re talking about.  Marilyn Dorothy Graham Flynn was grand.  A graduate from Vassar, she was super smart and had the quality of a Hollywood star with sparkly eyes, a killer smile and the most graceful poise around.    Black and white pictures of my father and her dating emanate her strength and beauty next to a ...Read on]]>  

My mother’s terrycloth robe appears in my thoughts every morning.  If my eyes were to see such a thing today, draped on a dummy, let’s say, I’d believe it to be horrendous:  a putrid mocha-colored sea of fuzziness, with a plain beige belt strap and a black trim.  I can’t think of any skin tone that would benefit from it, and most certainly not my mother’s with her pale skin and salt and pepper hair.  So not her color.

This was a sophisticated and fine lady we’re talking about.  Marilyn Dorothy Graham Flynn was grand.  A graduate from Vassar, she was super smart and had the quality of a Hollywood star with sparkly eyes, a killer smile and the most graceful poise around.    Black and white pictures of my father and her dating emanate her strength and beauty next to a puddle of mush and awe (dad).

And this force that was my mother went on to tackle life with zest and courage:  moving to the exotic country of Venezuela at a time when no one did such things with an even more exotic man (Jewish and Israeli!) who ripped her from her family’s suburban Anglo-saxon  identity landing her in a tropical chaos of bananas and car fumes. But mom embraced it all, every second of it, raising three girls in a rambunctious house she pretty much ran on her own while said husband traveled and traveled and traveled.

And then she began to cook.

A woman mocked for not knowing how to scramble eggs became the queen of cuisine:  tackling thick and musty volumes of French Culinary Arts and Mediterranean cooking and melding those with the wonderful pockets of her own imagination making for unforgettable meals.  I was blessed with an array of delicious soufflés, roasts, cakes, and her signature dessert of Ile Flotante, requested at every birthday dinner.  I couldn’t have asked for a better role model and mentor.

Except for her breakfasts.  In that terry cloth robe.  You could put her in the jungle, you could have her beat egg whites with the ease of a signature French chef, but some things were not to be messed with when it came to her routine:  breakfast was one of them.  For all the glamour, grace, beauty and adventure with which she tackled life, this woman ate the most boring thing each and every single morning:  toast with cream cheese and raspberry jam.

“Mom, seriously?  Again!”  I’d say, half in shock half disgusted, as my thoughts raced through the plethora of available, tasty breakfast offerings.

She’d look at me and smile, taking another messy bite out of her toast slipping with the sweet ooze created by the warm marriage of white and red goop.

“Don’t you want an arepa con queso guayanes?”  I tempted, thrusting the warm Venezuelan corncake nestling fresh white cheese.  I was answered with another bite of bread and a savage dip of the knife into the jam.

I always found it unappetizing to reach for that jam, say for a quick P&J sandwich, and find the insides of the jar tainted with white strips of cream cheese.  There was only one culprit and I’d instantly go and complain:

“Ewwww, mom, disguuuusting.  Seriously, use two knives.”

She was patient and kind and always quiet, throwing me a small smile I thought I understood but really had no clue what it meant.

I read:  “So sorry. Won’t happen again, even though you know it will, time and time again”

She meant:  “One day you will remember this.  One day you will find yourself in your own comfortable robe, at your own table, eating your own toast and jam and cream cheese, and you will remember this.”

That day has come.  I am in Mexico.  I can have the most elaborate breakfasts of eggs and tortillas and sauces and beans, and yet, I find myself longing for, craving for, my mother’s breakfast.  Each morning I find myself turned into her:  toast, raspberry jam, and a small but important adjustment:  crema de Oaxaca, Oaxacan cream.

This stuff is for the Gods …and my waistline.  I buy it off the local cheese truck every Saturday morning.  The cheese guy pulls out a hugs plastic bag, snips a hole in the corner, grabs a Dixie cup, and pours it in.  He then puts a piece of plastic wrap over top and, if you are lucky, throws a rubber band over it to seal the deal.  It’s as simple as that.  No FDA, no pasteurization, no questions asked.

The flavor that explodes in one’s mouth is indescribable.  Everything you know your arteries shouldn’t have and more.  And gosh darn it the thing goes amazing with raspberry jam and black bread!  Mom was right on target with her combo and all I can think of is how much I’d love to share this with her right now.  We’d send that Phili cream cheese out the door and create a new annoying goop combo with the crema Oaxaca.  I long to have mom’s palate dance with mine.  Instead, I leave long white marks of Oaxacan cream in my jam.  It’s my tribute to her.  It’s my celebration. It’s my acknowledgement:  mother knows best, especially with goopy messes and terrycloth robes.

Bloodthirsty people are much the rage these days.  I dare say, passé.  Just look at the explosion of pubescent pale lusting vampires and their beguiled, love-torn victims.  They, like the characters in Harry Potter, managed the unmanageable in our Twitter generation:  captivation in a book.  And not even a book:  a series.  The Twilight Series first came out in 2005 and quickly paved the way for fanged friends to enter our day-to-day vernacular.  Of course, it was instantly followed by a barrage of cheesy copycats and, inevitably, it arrived in a theatre near you.  On television the theme seems to have gone viral.  Enough already!  Aren’t we sick of vampires yet?

It would seem not.  Not even on a dusty, windy, forgotten road in Mexico, heading west from Zamora to Guadalajara. You can find them there.  The make-up may not be ...Read on]]>

Bloodthirsty people are much the rage these days.  I dare say, passé.  Just look at the explosion of pubescent pale lusting vampires and their beguiled, love-torn victims.  They, like the characters in Harry Potter, managed the unmanageable in our Twitter generation:  captivation in a book.  And not even a book:  a series.  The Twilight Series first came out in 2005 and quickly paved the way for fanged friends to enter our day-to-day vernacular.  Of course, it was instantly followed by a barrage of cheesy copycats and, inevitably, it arrived in a theatre near you.  On television the theme seems to have gone viral.  Enough already!  Aren’t we sick of vampires yet?

It would seem not.  Not even on a dusty, windy, forgotten road in Mexico, heading west from Zamora to Guadalajara. You can find them there.  The make-up may not be as good but the  special effects are even better.

We were first intrigued by the flaccid vampire look-alike blowing in the wind.

“Stop!” Our energetic kids demanded in naïve delight.  “There’s a vampire there, stop!”

Expecting nothing more than just another Kodak moment for the books, Husband and I pulled over, albeit a bit intrigued by the avid dedication to Halloween emanating from the tiny street stand in the middle of nowhere with a vampire.

The stand ended up being a make-shift bar, promising this local drink called “Vampiro” I had never heard of (and I am a proud graduate of the Columbia University Mixology class!)  Being the lightweight drinker that I am, my stiffest drink is usually compromised by a hearty Cabernet.  But this I had to try.

Ernesto, the dusty-road bartender, produced a gallon-sized plastic bag and swiftly filled it with a dizzying array of ingredients.

He poured precise measurements into my bag and then shook it fervishly, wrapping the whole bundle up with tape after deftly inserting a thick straw in a tiny aperture left on top.  My red I.V. was handed to me and I took a bloody gulp.

Sweet, salty, spicy and sour danced in my mouth at once, giving me enough chance to feel slightly giddy and yearn for more.  The bag felt chilled in my hand and wobbled deliriously as I slurped at my cocktail.  Slurping would turn out to be a mistake, making me grateful I wasn’t in charge of handling the acute curves our impending drive promised.

Husband looked at me with concern and jealousy.  He knew I was no more than a wine wimp and here I was coddling with Vampiro a bit too heavily.

“Hand it over,” he grumbled.  “Let me try it.”

My eyes shot out a possessive glance.  This vampire was mine.  Like the pages of hungry lust that kept all those teenagers enthralled, I clutched my bag tightly and refused to let it go.

“Sorry, buddy,” I managed to blubber out before returning to my unbridled sipping, “it wouldn’t be responsible for me to give you any of this right now.”

I thought pulling out the responsibility card might do the trick, but before I could finish, Husband had already approached me and snagged the baggie from my clumsy grasp.  One sip said it all.

“You’re drinking this?”  He laughed, knowing how much trouble I was already in.  “Enjoy, sweetie,” he coaxed, giving me back my vampire.  I was in for a visit with delight, followed by dizziness, and then a pounding headache, cursing myself for being led astray by a vampire, knowing I should just stick to wine.

Still, the dance of flavors remained a bright and happy memory, and as I reached for my emergency stash of Tylenol, I can only say what all the love-torn protagonist of vampire sagas say:  for that vampire, I’d do it all again…