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.”

The goldfish is bigger than the Eiffel Tower.  True story.  It was a prize granted to the kids five years ago in some stuffy sports center at the final hour of an exasperbated Purim carnival loaded with face paint, greasy food, and, obviously, an over-supply of goldfish.  The kids were thrilled at the offering.  The parents…no so much.  Still, the sight of their toddler’s grubby, greasy fingers clasping the plastic bag with a miniscule, petrified shock of orange seemed harmless enough, and, just like birthing them, the horror of what was happenening, washed away with the smiles on their faces.  ’How bad could it be,’  I remember thinking to myself, ‘the thing will be dead in four days anyway.’

So did I mention it’s been five years?  Five.  Years.

I think I’ve already showcased Goldie (who is now ghostly white) on this ...Read on]]>  

The goldfish is bigger than the Eiffel Tower.  True story.  It was a prize granted to the kids five years ago in some stuffy sports center at the final hour of an exasperbated Purim carnival loaded with face paint, greasy food, and, obviously, an over-supply of goldfish.  The kids were thrilled at the offering.  The parents…no so much.  Still, the sight of their toddler’s grubby, greasy fingers clasping the plastic bag with a miniscule, petrified shock of orange seemed harmless enough, and, just like birthing them, the horror of what was happenening, washed away with the smiles on their faces.  ’How bad could it be,’  I remember thinking to myself, ‘the thing will be dead in four days anyway.’

So did I mention it’s been five years?  Five.  Years.

I think I’ve already showcased Goldie (who is now ghostly white) on this site.  Back in the day when she was cute. And small.  But the thing is no longer either, having outgrown four tanks already.  Each time I buy a bigger one (because I can’t bear the depressing sight of her body aching for more space) she just grows bigger. Like a contained annoyance.

Friends gasp in amazement each time they visit us and our Science Project.
“Is that the SAME fish?” they query incredulously.  It’s like salt on my wound.

“Yes,” I grumble.

The kids are fascinated.  Each vacation we take (and there are many) becomes a feat for her survival.  The minute they walk in the door they run to her tank to take a peak and always gloriously announce, “GOLDIE IS ALIIIIIVE!”

And she is, gosh darnit.  No matter if it’s two days, or ten, or more.  She is always alive and growing, now bigger than her Eiffel Tower statue and too mammoth to swim under her Ponte Veccio replica.  It’s sad really.  Friends (yes, the same that gape at her and then escape to the safety of their monster-fish-free home) stare me down with humane eyes and meekly suggest I get her a bigger tank, ‘for God’s sake, look at the size of that thing.’ But I know better, damnit.  If I buy a bigger one, and this tank is HUGE, it will grow. Goldie seems to outlive and outgrow us all.

This summer poses an interesting problem.  We are moving, you see.  And not down the street. Or to another state.  But to Mexico City.  Fish bigger than Eiffel Towers don’t get to go, sadly.  So hearty discussions have been steadily underway for several months now:  what do we do with Goldie?

One child suggests we have a neighbor come in to the house regularly and feed her and make sure she is okay.  (Note, the sex of this thing has never been determined, but the kids unanimously appointed her as female.)

The other insists if we put her in a (big) ziploc bag, she will make the journey.

My husband and I are gourmands at heart.  She is big enough.  Fleshy enough.  And right there. Parguito Frito is a dish we both grew up enjoying on the beaches in Venezuela.   For those not fortunate enough to know, Venezuela boasts some of the world’s finest beaches:  crystal blue waters, powdery white sand, and amazing food as you sit on the sand enjoying it all, including a complete meal of freshly caught Parguito Frito (fried Red Snapper), Tostones con Queso Rayado (fried green plantains with grated fresh white cheese) and Ensalada de Repollo (shredded cabbage salad with cilantro and a lime mayonnaise dressing.)  Memorable stuff.

But no worries.  We are parents first and foremost, and anyway, we’ve seen the filth Goldie swims around in (wouldn’t want to ingest any part of that.)  Like the famous White House turkey each Thanksgiving, this fish, as big and plump as it gets, will be spared. For viewing eyes only.

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a very lazy mom.  Could she boast to fighting crime on the streets all day?  No.  Could she claim to seek justice in the highest courts of the land?  No.  Could she offer to better humanity with countless selfless hours of teaching our future generations in the classroom?  Not that one either.

Nope, this is just one plain ordinary mom whose day encompassed the very glamorous following events:

Drag herself out of bed at the ungodly hour of dark.  Curse husband for being gone on yet another business trip.

Prepare separate lunches for two demanding palates (hold the bread for him, extra mayo for her, peel and slice the cukes for him, minuscule cubes of apple for her lest it will get stuck in the braces – and it better ...Read on]]>

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a very lazy mom.  Could she boast to fighting crime on the streets all day?  No.  Could she claim to seek justice in the highest courts of the land?  No.  Could she offer to better humanity with countless selfless hours of teaching our future generations in the classroom?  Not that one either.

Nope, this is just one plain ordinary mom whose day encompassed the very glamorous following events:

Drag herself out of bed at the ungodly hour of dark.  Curse husband for being gone on yet another business trip.

Prepare separate lunches for two demanding palates (hold the bread for him, extra mayo for her, peel and slice the cukes for him, minuscule cubes of apple for her lest it will get stuck in the braces – and it better be Granny Smith because it’s the only one sour enough for this sour-flavor-lover.)

Imagine husband strolling through the streets of Sofia.  Feel blood pressure rising.

Try not to kill Child #1 who pops out of bed just as oh-so-tired-mom shuffles past her room en route to the espresso machine.  (Note:  espresso has not been consumed yet.  Not even smelled it yet.  You’d think Child #1 would get it by now:  DO NOT ENGAGE WITH AFOREMENTIONED MOTHER PRIOR TO INTRODUCTION OF COFFEE.)

She is a slow learner:

“Mom, where’s my uniform skirt?  Mom, do you want me to play you the new Willow Smith song I was talking about yesterday? (For the record, no amount of coffee makes Willow Smith bearable.) Mom, do you think today after school you can get me the tap shoes because my recital is in two weeks and the shoes Ms. Cindy saw me wear are too tight and Ms. Jenny said Ms. Cindy thought Marcia’s shoes were the same brand and Marcia cried to Ms. Jenny because….”  And on and on and on.

Sip Coffee.

Wake Child #2 up.

Prepare two completely different and equally demanding breakfasts for aforesaid children because THEY THINK THIS PLACE IS DENNY’S OR SOMETHING…

Child #1:  Sunshine Breakfast:  two eggs, over-easy, two slices of lightly toasted and buttered bread, sliced in exactly 5 rectangular strips (take crust off) spread around the egg as to portray rays of sunshine. (No joke.  Waiting for this to not be cool anymore, but, apparently, at age 12, it still is.)  Bacon on the side, semi-raw (any sign of crunch and it is rejected.) Tater tots, mushy, not crunchy, and a bowl of sliced bananas that are consumed with the same dramatic flair as if they were cyanide cookies.

Child #2:  So not an egg eater.  Oatmeal, cooked to perfection: creamy, not clumpy, with just a smidgen of brown sugar and a light dusting of cinnamon.  Otherwise it’s no good.  Bacon:  extra crunchy, i.e., one notch below burnt. ( Anything less and it is rejected.)  Two pounds of fruit.  Don’t bother giving Child #2 less than that.  He’ll just ask for more.  Raspberries & blackberries are top choices, but will  always accept any fruit, albeit with a tiny roll of them big butterscotch eyes.

Prepare school snack for Child #2.

Sip, sip, sip, coffee.

Scream at kids about numerous morning-related tasks:

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth, brush your hair, put your shoes on, make your bed.  Hey is that what you call brushing your hair?”

Race out the door with children in tow, somehow five minutes late.  Curse husband again for not being an active participant of this chaos.

Speed over to bus stop of Child #1.  Drop off.  Exhale.

Speed over to school of Child #2.  Drop off with an extra kiss (it’s the cute eyes.)

Then three hours are gobbled up by The Black Hole of Time And Errands:

Grocery shopping, photocopy making, mailing of important documents in pending preparation for move to foreign country (just a small stress factor), tending to The Phone Call That Never Ends, meeting with school teacher (#2 not listening again), gas up the chauffeur-mobile (again).

And off to Le Alliance Française to try and learn French (pourquoi pas?)

3 hours of brain frying.   Utterly exhausting mental workout.  Is it because I am forty, or was learning EASIER when I was YOUNGER???

Race back to pick up Child #2 from school.

Harass #2 about doing homework.

Afternoon snack for #2 (cheese tortilla roll, froid), cucumber slices with ranch, sliced apples (peeled).

Drive Child #2 to tutor.  Zip back to Bus Stop of Child #1 for pickup.  Zoom back to tutor with Child #1.  Drop off.

Accept “Don’t be late” as the closest resemblance of affection from a soon-to-be teenager.

Reluctantly head over to gym for body’s sake.  Because somehow, somewhere along the way, fifteen pounds crashed this party.

Exercise very unhappily.  (And no, it never feels good, not before, during or after, dammit.)

Pick up Child #1 and Child #2 from tutor (late).

Assaulted by numerous complaints on the injustices of their lives.

Appear sympathetic (Note, this is actually impossible to do: cynicism, sarcasm and tactlessness are worn much better.)

Drive home with two zapped and hungry children.

Dinner?

What’s a gal to do?

Sea Bass en Papillote!

It’s simple, tasty, fast and guilt-free!

Plus, perfect chance to savor  superherodom, albeit within the small but intense confines of the family.  Even Child #1, i.e.,  Child Who Does Not Eat Vegetables, eats vegetables when this dish is made!

Command children to assist.

“En Papillote” is just French-fancy for parchment paper – a mess-free, healthy method of steaming fish (or whatever protein you choose.)

Cut the parchment paper pieces into hearts (oh the fun!), coat with butter (keep an eye on craft-happy #1) and then pile on the diced veggie love!

A fun, family moment is happening here.  (Curse husband for missing fun family moment.)

Seal up packages and pop them in the oven.   They’ll cook with their own steam, offering packets brimming with flavor and goodness that is delicious and healthy.

Child #1 & Child #2 are clueless to health scam.

They just think it’s cool, and by default, maybe mom is a bit cool too.  That’s as close as I’ll get to saving the world today.  And it’s good enough for me.

Her back was as long and graceful as the bouquet of snow white lilies she held in her slender fingers and as I watched this lovely bride walk to the altar to be wed it dawned on me that this was Gaby, my husband’s niece whom I’d met when she was a wee bitty baby of 15 months and my heart skipped a beat in shock that the time had dared trick me into passing this quickly so that we were here, in this ever lasting moment, witnessing her marriage on a cool November night.

I’d met Gaby only yesterday it seemed. Cradled in the arms of her father we’d been introduced in the dusty hot plains of Venezuela. I remember a lanky baby straddled around her dad’s comforting hold, a mess of bouncy curls and an ...Read on]]>

Her back was as long and graceful as the bouquet of snow white lilies she held in her slender fingers and as I watched this lovely bride walk to the altar to be wed it dawned on me that this was Gaby, my husband’s niece whom I’d met when she was a wee bitty baby of 15 months and my heart skipped a beat in shock that the time had dared trick me into passing this quickly so that we were here, in this ever lasting moment, witnessing her marriage on a cool November night.

I’d met Gaby only yesterday it seemed. Cradled in the arms of her father we’d been introduced in the dusty hot plains of Venezuela. I remember a lanky baby straddled around her dad’s comforting hold, a mess of bouncy curls and an infectious smile. Gaby. This is Gaby. And that baby I’d first met stretched on and and on to become a teenager full of awareness and purpose.

She’d been staying at my house in South Florida when 9/11 struck as I held my own two-year old daughter and carried another baby on the way. Gaby had been all of fifteen then, recently emigrated from Venezuela, her English barely a mumble but she knew the loss and shock and angst those airplanes plummeting into the twin towers and a vacant field in Pennsylvania caused our nation. And when I could not find an American flag to put up in our front yard, because ours was swallowed in the Bermuda Triangle that is our attic and stores had sold out of any new ones, Gaby, five days fresh an American, sat at my dinning room table and made one, stripe by stripe, star by star she sketched and colored and brought to life the symbol of our country with equal pride and dedication so that when we taped her efforts on the front window it gleamed and shimmered with the hope and optimism that flag represents to so many. This is who she was then and is now: a girl turned woman full of hope and optimism and of course, still, that infectious smile.  I will never forget that day, as all of us who witnessed it. But I will never forget how Gaby made it a bit more bearable for me.

And now, she holds a beautiful bouquet of pure white and she is tall, so tall and lovely as she steps into her newfound life as a wife and my pride grows full and gladly overflows. She is kind and strong and pure like the lilies and there is no doubt she makes the days of her husband, Eduardo a little bit easier, a little bit better. I’ve given her a cooking tool set as a wedding gift and she gives me back that smile with a giggle. She is uneasy no doubt. This role as married one still feels awkward, unsteady. Those around her laugh as well and joke she burns water. But I know she’ll do fine, even better, she’ll shine, just as that teenager she was years ago who made a glorious flag out of paper, dedication and passion, she’ll always shine. In the meantime, I’ll offer her one of many cheater’s recipe: a meal that will dazzle even the most skeptical and requires little if any skill. Of course any meal will be perfect served with that dazzling smile.

Once upon a time there was a very young lady and a not-quite-as-young man (a scandal left for another story) that were carefree, adventurous and childless. On a whim, they decided to tour the country of Spain, and as was their manner, to tour it in full culinary detail. Of course, this dashing duo tackled with the small inconvenience of being broke and feared little finance would serve as a burden in their experience of food.

They were joined by other friends on this journey that took place in the heart of a scorching summer twenty years ago and together they all crammed into a tiny and dusty red Ford Fiesta and, listening to endless rounds of Chrissie Hynde’s “Brass in Pocket” and Mecano’s melancholic “Aire” explored their souls and the Iberian peninsula for a sultry five ...Read on]]>

Once upon a time there was a very young lady and a not-quite-as-young man (a scandal left for another story) that were carefree, adventurous and childless. On a whim, they decided to tour the country of Spain, and as was their manner, to tour it in full culinary detail. Of course, this dashing duo tackled with the small inconvenience of being broke and feared little finance would serve as a burden in their experience of food.

They were joined by other friends on this journey that took place in the heart of a scorching summer twenty years ago and together they all crammed into a tiny and dusty red Ford Fiesta and, listening to endless rounds of Chrissie Hynde’s “Brass in Pocket” and Mecano’s melancholic “Aire” explored their souls and the Iberian peninsula for a sultry five weeks filled with laughter, sights and, many “fixed menu” meals that where exquisite and reliably affordable, casting aside financial doubts. The experience left me, that very young lady, enamored with Spain, whose images and flavors have steadily nourished me over the years.

The trip began and culminated in La Plaza Mayor, the legendary square-turned-tourist attraction in Madrid famed for being the center for public beheadings back in its heyday. By 1989 this pastime was long gone, of course, and in its place stood clowns folding balloons for giddy children, men posing as Charlie Chaplin and heavyset women draped in clay personifying statues under the unforgiving heat. Nestled amongst stores selling Chinese-made plastic albañiques and sword replicas sat an inconspicuous space whose only connection to the outside world was a tiny window with a miniature blackboard scribbling the day’s dish, which was always the same thing: bocadillo de calamares (fried squid sandwich). Our noses had led us to this spot, our eyes saw the crowds lined up and reconfirmed the choice, and the price sang pretty in our light wallets, making it a done deal. Time and time again we sought excuses to return to this alcove and gobbled mounds of freshly fried squid rings crammed into warm crusty mini-baguettes doused with fresh ocean, crunchy sea salt and nothing else. It was a memory I carried and protected vehemently through the years.

So it seemed fitting that now, this young duo that had grown up a bit, married, and created a family head straight for La Plaza Mayor on their return trip to Spain. It was early June and the heat still jostled us, even after being Miami residents for almost fifteen years. Clowns and Chaplins still abounded as well as the outdoor cafes serving overpriced cold beer. We had come here with one purpose really and that was to recapture our carefree youth through the unforgettable bocadillo. Our long-time Madrid-based friend thought we were insane twenty years ago and still insane today: insane to head to this touristy spot and pay what we were paying for a beer that would be colder and cheaper two blocks away and certainly insane to brave the bocadillos of Plaza Mayor.

“Everyone knows you get Hepatitis  from those. The grease here is from last century. Let’s go three blocks away, the best bocadillos, fresh calamares, pure olive oil, no worries”, he begged. Now, this is a guy that thrives on cheap eats, so I would be lying if I say I didn’t hesitate a bit. But the memory of youth and flavor drove us forth as our eyes scanned the perimeter of the square in search of that memorable little window.

And then we saw it off to the side. It was dark and dank and still had the scribbled little blackboard but the crowds where gone. My mate and I eyed each other suspiciously and in the silent ebb of mind language shared by soul mates conferred:

“No line, huh? Do we really want to venture there? We’ve come a long way, filled our wallets a bit since then, might it not possibly be a wiser move to hit the tapas bar around the bend?”

It all happened within the span of three blinks. And even those three blinks where futile, as we both knew the answer: Yes. Undeniably, undoubtedly yes. We will forge onward and ahead. To the abandoned window that housed a time filled with adventure and promise and fun, and we think, good food.

Our friend shook his head and moved to the side. Our children smelled distrust and graciously declined. But my mate and I pressed forward, approached the tiny hole and rattled off our order: “Dos bocadillos, por favor.”

They arrived too quickly.   We quietly acknowledged this as the first bad sign. No time to heat up the oil, gently batter the squid and fry. But there we were, holding our youth in our calloused hands, hands that had locked together over twenty years ago and traveled the world, filling our hearts and bellies with love, food and adventure. So we did what we do best and flung ourselves forward, creating a new memory, we took a bite of our bocadillo in unison, with our children apprehensively looking on and our friend looking away, and as we both took that first anticipated bite we realized it was disgusting; truly and utterly disgusting.

When something is that disgusting it is hard to describe why. Way too salty. Way too greasy. Way too old. Way wrong. And where someone would normally spit it out and spew in despair we did what only lunatics as us do and took another bite (again in unison) just to make sure it truly was that disgusting, in ghoulish curiosity and desperate need to verify our past, for now the questions loomed in our mind:

Was it always that gross? Did we have no taste back then? Where we that desperate?

I can tell you that was the end of that. The bocadillos ended up in the trash after our giggling fit subsided. Our children looked confused and our friend was vindicated:

“See, I told you. Hepatitis, amigos, hepatitis.”

And with that we let the memory alone, clasped our greasy hands together and held one hand out for each one of our kids to grab and form a chain as together, we moved forward, laughing our youth away as we headed towards the tapas bar around the bend.

Había una vez una joven señorita y hombre, no tan joven como ella (un escándalo reservado para otra oportunidad) que eran aventureros, despreocupados, y sin hijos. En un capricho, ellos decidieron recorrer el país de España, y como era su manera, recorrerlo en detalle culinario completo.

Fueron acompañados en su aventura por otros amigos y este viaje ocurrió en el corazón de un verano caluroso hace veinte años atras. Montados sobre un pequeño carrito escuchando rondas interminables de Chrissie Hynde de “The Pretenders” y las canciones melancólicas de Mecano, exploraron sus almas y sus paladares durante cinco semanas bochornosas llenas de risa, vistas y, muchos “menú fijos” que ofrecian excelentes y baratas. Yo era esa misma señorita y la experiencia me dejó enamorada de España:  por sus imágenes y sus sabores.

El viaje comenzó y culminó en La Plaza Mayor, la atracción turista en Madrid famosa de ser el centro de la decapitación pública años atrás. Ya en 1989 este pasatiempo no existía, por supuesto, y en su lugar andaban payasos doblando globos en formas de animalitos, hombres que se hacen pasar como Charlie Chaplin y mujeres corpulentas cubiertas en la arcilla que personificaban estatuas bajo el calor implacable. Recostado entre tiendas que venden albañiques plasticos de la China había un espacio discreto con una ventana diminuta y un pizarrón en miniatura anunciando el plato del día, que era siempre la misma cosa: bocadillo de calamares. Nuestras narices nos habían conducido a este punto, nuestros ojos vieron la cola de gente esperando y el precio barato nos dijo que este era el lugar. Encontrabamos cualquiera excusa para volver a este nicho y devorar esos deliciosos anillos de calamar frito recostados dentro de mini-baguettes crujientes empapados con océano fresco, sal de mar crujiente y nada más. Esta era una memoria que cargaba conmigo todo estos años y protegía vehementemente.

Entonces nos parecio obvio que ahora, este dúo joven que había crecido un poco, se habían casado, y andaban con dos hijos, irían directamente a la Plaza Mayor en su viaje de vuelta a España. Era principios de junio y el calor nos picaba la aun siendo residentes de Miami durante casi quince años. Los payasos y Chaplins todavía abundaban así como las cafeterías al aire libre que sirven la cerveza fría demasiado cara. Habíamos venido aquí con el objetivo de recobrar nuestra juventud despreocupada con ese bocadillo inolvidable. Nuestro amigo Madrileño pensó que estabamos locos hace veinte años y todavía locos hoy: locos por dirigirnos a este punto demasiado turístico y pagar lo que pagámos para una cerveza y definitivamente locos para comer un bocadillo de calamares en La Plaza Mayor.

“Todo el mundo sabe que estos bocadillos dan Hepatitis. La grasa es del siglo pasado. Vamos tres cuadras de aqui donde hay mejor bocadillos, calamares fresco, aceite de oliva puro, ningunas preocupaciones”, nos suplico. Pero la memoria de juventud y sabor nos condujo adelante y con nuestros ojos exploraramos el perímetro de la Plaza en busqueda de aquella pequeña ventana memorable.

Y alli estaba, oscura y pequeña pero completamente abandonada. Mi compañero y yo nos miramos y en ese lenguaje silencioso de los ojos nos consultamos:

¿“No hay gente, ¡eh!? ¿Realmente queremos arriesgarnos allí? ¿Hemos crecido mucho, la cartera un poco mas llena que aquel entonces, no seria mas sabio ir a comer unas tapas en el barrio del lado?”

Dentro de tres parpadeos nos consultamos. Y imediatamente ambos sabíamos la respuesta: Sí. Sin duda, indudablemente sí. Forjaremos adelante con nuestro bocadillo famoso. A la ventana abandonada llegamos llenos de aventura, promesa y diversión, y esperabamos, buena comida.

Nuestro amigo sacudió su cabeza y se movió al lado. Nuestros niños nos vieron sospechosamente sin hablar una palabra. Pero mi compañero y yo avanzamos, pidiendo nuestra orden: “Dos bocadillos, por favor.”

Los bocadillos llegaron rápidamente. Reconocimos esto como la primera falla. No había tiempo para calentar el aceite y freír el calamar. Pero allí nos encontramos sosteniendo nuestra juventud en nuestras manos, manos que se habían unido hace más de veinte años y habían viajado el mundo, llenando nuestros corazones con amor, alimento y aventura. Entonces hicimos lo que solo sabemos hacer y, creando una nueva memoria, tomamos un mordisco de nuestro bocadillo a la misma vez con nuestros niños viendonos aprensivamente y nuestro amigo que no se atrevia ver y en en aquel primer mordisco nos dimos cuenta que este bocadillo era asqueroso; realmente y completamente asqueroso.

Cuando algo es así de asqueroso es difícil describir por qué. Demasiado salado. Demasiada grasa. Demasiado viejo. Y riendonos nos preguntamos:

¿Era esto siempre tan asqueroso? ¿No teníamos ningún paladar en aquel entonces? ¿Estabamos tan desesperados?

El bocadillos terminó en la basura mientras que nos reímos como dos tontos. Nuestros niños se veían aturdidos y nuestro amigo sonría:

“Vez, les dije. Hepatitis, amigos, hepatitis.”

Y con esto dejamos la memoria sola, enlazamos nuestras manos grasosas y ofrecimos nuestra otra mana para cada uno de nuestros niños donde formamos una cadena y juntos, avanzamos, riéndonos sobre nuestra juventud mientras que nos dirigimos hacia el otro barrio buscando comer unas tapas.

When you spend three weeks on an unbridled culinary adventure through France, Israel and Spain there are many, many stories to tell.  Of course, there are museums and family visits and landmarks to explore, but when you are traveling with my clan, who specializes in coordinating all travel events around the food, there is so much more.  Who else makes the 400 kilometer journey from Madrid to the unforgettable Basque country for a lunch date, albeit one at the memorable Mugaritz, the number four restaurant in the world?  Yes, there are stories to tell and images to follow.  And I promise, I will tell them all.  I have been back in the States less than a week and I still have trouble processing all the flavors.  All the sights.  All the food.

But really, truly and honestly, I can’t ...Read on]]>

When you spend three weeks on an unbridled culinary adventure through France, Israel and Spain there are many, many stories to tell.  Of course, there are museums and family visits and landmarks to explore, but when you are traveling with my clan, who specializes in coordinating all travel events around the food, there is so much more.  Who else makes the 400 kilometer journey from Madrid to the unforgettable Basque country for a lunch date, albeit one at the memorable Mugaritz, the number four restaurant in the world?  Yes, there are stories to tell and images to follow.  And I promise, I will tell them all.  I have been back in the States less than a week and I still have trouble processing all the flavors.  All the sights.  All the food.

But really, truly and honestly, I can’t take my mind off the fish.  It is with me day and night. I shower. The fish.  I drive the minivan.  The fish.  I pretend to acclimate to reality.  The fish.  There was so much fish.  Three stories-worth, to be exact.  It appears the fish have left their mark. 

The place was Madrid, more specifically, El Mercado de Ventas, just a short walk from the metro stop  of the same name.  The Metro, it turns out, is the best venue of travel around this majestic city, if you don’t have a Vespa that is (I vow on moving to Europe just so I can have my bright red retro Vespa to zoom around in romantically.)

But it really all begins with muggy, strip-mall infused Plantation, Florida, this story of fish and how they have ended up haunting me.  My brother-in-law, a true Madrileño, took a sabbatical from his bustling metropolis and headed for American suburbia, a stint that soon ended when he realized, amongst other things, that no one walks on the streets in the burbs.  No one at all.   In his two-year stint of trying to mold into American life , what kept him grounded was a constant fixation on finding the proper ‘pescaderia’ , or fish shop.  You’d think, living in South Florida, that would be a no-brainer, but, it proved to be rather difficult.

Over late-night cafecitos, he’d recount to me his failed attempts at finding the proper fish store: this one was too small, too dirty, only frozen fillets, smelled funny.  And then he’d launch into stories of Spanish fish and markets, and most specifically, this one near his home in Madrid, El Mercado de Ventas, housing three floors of sustainable, fresh seafood.  Time and time again he’d deliver his signature paella with a sigh that revealed the vibrant and memorable dish would never live up to a Spaniard’s standard.   I found no folly in the numerous servings I’d treat myself to, quite the contrary, I enjoyed the meal ravenously, always complimenting and savoring each bite.  But his look was slightly deflated and resigned and he’d always answer me the same way:  “En España es diferente”:  In Spain it is different.  And, although I knew vaguely what he meant, (I had, after all, spent five weeks discovering the culinary gems of this incredibly rich country twenty years ago, ) I had chosen to forget, or not know, or play the safe ignorance-is-bliss card, because, sometimes, choosing not to know is easier than dealing with the reality of knowing.  Especially, it seems, when it comes to fish.

Until I landed in Madrid and knew that, amongst the overscheduled events lining my crowded calendar, I needed to include a trip to the famed fish market, Mercado de Ventas, the one my brother-in-law wouldn’t stop talking about.

I almost didn’t make it to Ventas.  I was distracted by the lovely neighborhood bullring (third largest in the world) whose architecture drew me in (and that is when I am an avid anti-bullfighting type of gal).  I found myself taking an hour-long tour of the premises, vacant of bulls and their doom and fully appreciating the art and care placed into these venues as well as its long and proud history.  

Those hours in the hot Madrid sun demanded a necessary stop at a local Cerveceria, where, along with the mandatory caña (ice cold beer), I refueled on platters of octopus, fried anchovies, or boquerones, and potatoes doused in aioli.  Just another typical day in Madrid.

All these distractions led me to a delayed entrance to the Mercado.  When I arrived, visitors where leaving and fishmongers where dousing down their stations and cleaning up shop, shutting operations for the three-hour lunch break, only to open up later in the day for evening shoppers.  I arrived as the market was closing down.

But they must have seen the look of delight and desperation in my American eyes as my neon orange crocs crossed the threshold to fish.  They must have known. This poor tourist, we can change her with this.  We can alter her concept of fish if we let her in here. Even for a peek.  Even for a peek of one stall. For I can’t tell you how many stalls there were, but I can tell you there were three stories’ worth of stalls, and each stall as full and boisterous as the next, beaming and glistening with mounds of the ocean’s best catch.  So they were generous (or wicked) and let me in, even though everything was closing down.

And there I was, a sole visitor in a happily crowded world of seafood, taking a momentary break, just me, the fish, and fishmongers cleaning up the muck. And I was happy, oh so happy to be there.  Men who where wrapping up their morning shift couldn’t help themselves but stare as I walked from stall to stall in awe, carefully lifting up plastic sheets that had already been placed over the resting seafood.  Keenly aware that what lay underneath would forever taunt me they offered to remove the plastic sheeting for me to better see, to better understand this culture of seafood of theirs unlike any others.

And that is how I came to appreciate my brother-in-law’s incessant and futile quest for fish in America.  With a glimpse of this market I had become transformed and changed to understand the need for fish.  The few shops still open were apologetic: “Come back in three hours, señora”, they begged, “when we will be open, and you will see more, so sorry to be cleaning up, señora, so sorry not to have it all out.”  But there was much, so much more than I ‘d ever seen before, anywhere, anyplace, and I’ve been to so many places, but none like this. So fresh, the fish was, lying on endless beds of ice they all seemed to wink at me, to promise me they’d recently been swimming in the crisp clear waters and I believe them all.  There was no hiding or lying in this fish market. They sang freshness and the smell in the air was not dank, but sweet and strong and clear and I wanted to never leave this place, to tour its three stories’ worth of salt and sand and sea, and stay amongst these fishmongers forever, even if they chuckled at my child-like zeal, I knew they appreciated it.  I knew they knew the role they had in shaping me. In my change.  In the way I’d never look at fish the same again.  Never would be enough.  Never would be like this. I had been tarred and tainted, it seemed, by the Mercado de Ventas, and I was all the happier for it.

El Mercado De Ventas, Una Transformación

Cuando uno pasa tres semanas viajando por Francia, Israel y España hay muchas historias para contar. Por supuesto, hay museos y visitas a familia, pero con mi clan, quién se especializa en la coordinación de todos los acontecimientos de viajes alrededor del alimento, hay tanto más. ¿Quién más brinca de Madrid al país vasco (un viajecito de 400 kilómetros) para disfrutar de una comida (que por sí fue más que memorable) en Mugaritz? Sí, hay historias para contar e imágenes para seguir y prometo contar cada cuento.  He estado de vuelta en los Estados Unidos menos de una semana y todavía no logro procesar todos los sabores. Todo el paisaje. Toda la comida.

Pero francamente, no puedo dejar de pensar en el pescado. Noche y dia lo tengo en mente. Me ducho. El pescado. Conduzco la minivan. El pescado. Pretendo aclimatarme a la realidad. El pescado. Había tanto pescado. Tres pisos de pescado, para ser exacto. Parece que los peces han dejado su hueya.

El lugar es el Mercado de Ventas en Madrid, sólo un paseo corto desde la parada de metro del mismo nombre. El Metro, resulta, es la mejor manera de andar dentro de esta ciudad majestuosa.  Eso es, si usted no tiene una Vespa disponible (he decidido mudarme a Europa tan solo para andar montada sobre mi  Vespa, color rojo brillante.)

Pero este cuento empieza realmente en Plantation, Florida, cuando mi cuñado Madrileño vivia aqui. En ese período de dos años del tratar de acostumbrarse a la vida suburbia gringa, que es una vida muy diferente a la de una gran ciudad Europea como Madrid, empezó una obsesión por la busqueda de la pescadería apropiada.  Estando en el sur de Florida, uno pensaría que sería una cosa fácil, pero, resultó ser bastante difícil.

Tomando cafecitos él me relataría sus intentos fracasados por dicha busqueda: uno era demasiado pequeño, demasiado sucio, filetes sólo congelados, olía mal. Y luego lanzaría a historias de las pescaderías españolas, como la que estaba cerca de su casa en Madrid, el Mercado de Ventas, alojando tres plantas de mariscos sostenibles. Preparaba su paella famosa con un suspiro que reveló su disastisfacción con el plato vibrante, informándome que nunca llegaría al estándar Español. Yo no entendía ni encontraba ninguna falla, pero su mirada desinflada siempre me aseguraba: “ En España es diferente. En España es diferente.” Y, aunque yo supiera vagamente lo que él quiso decir, ( había pasado cinco semanas descubriendo las maravillas culinarias de este país en mi vida universitaria) yo había decidido olvidar, o no saber, o pretender olvidarlo porque, a veces, decidiendo no saber es más fácil que acceptar la triste realidad, sobre todo, cuando se trata de pez.

Asi que, aterrizando en Madrid, supe que tenía que incluir un viaje al Mercado de Ventas, el Mercado de pescado que mi cuñado no dejaba de hablar.

Casi no llegue a Ventas. Fui distraída por la plaza de toros de Ventas (tercera más grande en el mundo) cuya arquitectura me encantó.  Y aunque me orgullo en ser enemiga del deporte, me encontré tomando un tour del lugar historico, apreciando el arte y cuidado dedicado al lugar así como su historia larga y orgullosa.

Aquellas horas en el sol Madrileño exigía una parada necesaria en la cerveceria local, donde, junto con una mandataria caña (cerveza fría), disfruté de pulpo gallego, boquerones fritos, y patatas empapadas en salsa aioli. Otra típica tarde en Madrid.

Todas estas distracciones me causaron una entrada retrasada al Mercado. Cuando llegué, la gente se iba y los trabajadores empezaban a guardar y limpiar sus tiendas, cerrando para el almuerzo que duraría tres horas.

Me vieron la cara de asombrada e ilusionada y tomaron piedad. Aunque cerraban, me dieron paso y dejaron entrar.  “Rapidito, señora, que cerramos” me aseguró el guachiman.

Asi es como me encontre, la única invitada dentro de un mundo de tres pisos de mariscos.  Y yo era feliz, ay tan feliz de estar allí! Los hombres limpiando el trabajo de la mañana me miraban asombrados e ofrecían levantar las mayas plásticas que habían colocado sobre los mariscos que descansaban.

Y así es como vine a apreciar la búsqueda incesante de mi cuñado. Con un vistaso a este mercado ya me había transformado y llegado a entender la importancia de esta cultura de mariscos. Las pocas tiendas todavía abiertas me prometían mas: “vuelva en tres horas, señora”, me pidieron, “cuando estaremos abiertos, y usted verá más.”

Pero aun asi, había mucho, tanto más que habia visto alguna vez, en cualquier otro sitio. Interminable cantidades de pescado sobre hielo me saludaban, asegurandome que habían estado nadando recientemente en las aguas claras del mar. Y yo creía en cada uno.  Ellos cantaron la frescura y el olor en el aire no estaba húmedo, pero limpio y fuerte y salado y nunca quería dejar este lugar y su promesa de sal y arena y mar.

Los Pescadores sonreían al verme. Yo sabía que ellos entendían el papel que tenían en mi nueva formación. En esta transformación que ya no permitía que viera pescado de la misma manera. Me tocaría esa misma busqueda incesante de mi cuñado.  Nunca sería suficiente. Lo sabía al conocer este Mercado de Ventas y era más feliz por ello.

In my last post I announced fruits and veggies would be on my mind, and so I have been thinking about pineapples. I feel they’ve been shamed in my sub-tropical turf of South Florida: they keep appearing packaged in odd, cylindrical shafts in the supermarket: peeled, cored and ruined of outer beauty, all for the unbeatable price of $5.99. The pineapple, known to scientists as ananas comosus, has a rich and long history, dating back to its origins in Southern Brazil and Paraguay before the Spanish explorers got wind of this delectable fruit when they reached the new land. After the Spaniards got in on things, they took it back to Europe where it made its way to the Phillipines and eventually Hawaii. The rest is history. And that’s history I don’t want to see pre-packaged ...Read on]]>

In my last post I announced fruits and veggies would be on my mind, and so I have been thinking about pineapples. I feel they’ve been shamed in my sub-tropical turf of South Florida: they keep appearing packaged in odd, cylindrical shafts in the supermarket: peeled, cored and ruined of outer beauty, all for the unbeatable price of $5.99. The pineapple, known to scientists as ananas comosus, has a rich and long history, dating back to its origins in Southern Brazil and Paraguay before the Spanish explorers got wind of this delectable fruit when they reached the new land. After the Spaniards got in on things, they took it back to Europe where it made its way to the Phillipines and eventually Hawaii. The rest is history. And that’s history I don’t want to see pre-packaged in cylindrical plastic, I don’t care how rushed we all are.

I live a quiet, gastronomic revolution amongst my culinary-challenged bretheren, a sort of one-woman show that entails pathetic little habits I practice to spread my word of food. One of which involves the pineapple: I’m in the supermarket. I walk up to a real live normal pineapple, nestled amongst an untouched pile of real live normal pineapples, pick it up and raise it towards the sky just as King Mufasa lifted his baby cub Simba to the heavens in the 1994 film, The Lion King and announce to the sterile air piping Lionel Richie’s “Three Times A Lady”:

“Ahhhh. I think I will get THIS pineapple.”

Then I wait and look around. (I do, I really do. Because I believe I have some sort of undiagnosed egocentric culinary illness that compels me to do this.) And then it happens. It always happens. Someone looks at me in subtle shock while trying to squeeze a bag of pre-packaged, pre-rinsed, perfectly chiseled germ and flavor-free produce. There may even be a slight gasp. And then I am bestowed with a combined look of awe, admiration, and pity as folk wonder how I will ever achieve bliss or understanding holding that spiky odd contraption they’ve been told houses pineapple flesh but never, ever, ever have known how to reach. It’s a sick thrill, but, someone’s gotta seek it. I’ll have the occasional gutsy housewife come up to me and ask how on earth I get the pineapple from there and for God’s sake, why.

It’s a perfect opportunity for me to teach about food, something I can’t help myself with, carefully explaining the proper way to cut a pineapple depending on the dish: thin, round rings for a delicate pineapple upside down cake or small cubes to caramelize tenderly with red peppers, onions and cilantro for a Florribean specialty of Tropical Sea Scallops. By the time I am done even the manager who had been eyeing me nervously is just about ready to hand me a knife and a small card table in the corner for free demonstrations.

Housewife’s brow is beginning to burrow and her lips tighten in disapproval and I know what she is thinking: she is wondering why bypass the clean $5.99 plastic pineapple special for this one, with all the waste it will produce. And then there’s the need to actually touch it. Get sticky. Feel fruit. And before she fully loses herself in that bad, bad, world, I explain the difference of freshly cut fruit and fruit that’s been sitting around under cold neon lights, that even though pre-cut produce is a thriving industry, it is one that absolutely and utterly compromises the flavor. I tell her there is nothing lovelier than carving out one’s food, reaching for that gold fruit with sticky fingers and losing oneself in a moment of sunshine and bliss and as I tell her this her face relaxes and a smile spreads over her chapped lips and she licks them as if she can already taste the fruit’s gem.

Yes, I’ve peaked her interest I see. If I were a man this may even work other wonders… I tell her that using the whole pineapple is possible, even practiced in many places. Throw the peel, unwashed and all, into a pitcher of water and let it ferment for several days until it turns into a tasty, slightly alcoholic pineapple guarapo, a popular Venezuelan weekend drink. Take the crown and create a centerpiece with it if you’ve got the Martha Stewart in you, or root it and plop it into a pot of dirt and see how a new pineapple will eventually form. Get your hands dirty while you’re at it, lady. Always get your hands dirty, close your eyes, and savor the sweetness of life. I know. I have screaming children too and I need to do this. Regularly. Cutting and carving and dicing and eating this golden slice of paradise so beats the $200 bucks an hour shrink or a shiatsu massage, I promise her. So beats it.

I’ve gotten lost in a pineapple again and in doing so I’ve closed my eyes. When I am done I open them to see she is hugging two whole pineapples, invigored and renewed; she thanks me, ready to take on the world with sweetness and earth, one sticky slice at a time.

Bienvenidos!

Bienvenidos a Culinary Compulsion en Español!

Hoy estoy pensando en la piña, o ananás.

Me parece que esta fruta no ha recibido el tratamiento que merece aquí en la tierra subtropical del sur de Florida. En vez de celebrar la piña, la veo encarcelada en cilíndricos plásticos en el supermercado donde vive desnuda de su belleza externa.

La piña, conocida a científicos como ananás comosus, tiene una historia rica y larga, empezando con sus orígenes en Brasil y Paraguay, luego fue introducida a Europa por los conquistadores y de allí viajo a las islas Filipinas y finalmente Hawaii donde despego como una de las frutas mas comercializadas del mundo. El resto es historia. Así que no me da gusto ver la historia embalada en un plástico cilíndrico, no me importa que tal apresurado estemos.

He creado hábitos un poco patéticos que practico para vocalizar mi frustración sobre la falta de entendimiento culinario entre la comunidad Americana. Uno en particular es para informar la gente sobre la piña: entrando al supermercado, voy hacia la montaña de piñas abandonadas, agarro una de estas bellesas, y en mi voz mas alta le informo al mundo:

“Ahhhh… comprare ESTA piña.”

Entonces espero y miro alrededor. (Lo hago, realmente lo hago. Como creo que tengo alguna clase de enfermedad culinaria egocéntrica no diagnosticada esto es mi vicio.)

Y lo hago porque se que va pasar algo. Siempre pasa. Alguien me mira en asombro mientras tratan de apretar una bolsa de espinaca o lechuga o pimentón rojo picado- no importa que es, pero siempre es algo esteril y sin sabor. A vecez hasta oigo un grito reprimido de sorpresa, inevitablemente vienen miradas de temor, admiración, y compasión mientras me observan y tratan de imaginar como ese objeto que tengo entre mis manos me traerá la fruta dulce de la piña- algo que han visto en libros o revistas pero nunca, nunca han entendido como alcanzar.

Habrá una ama de casa curiosa que me preguntara que se hace con eso. Es mi oportunidad perfecta para educar sobre la comida y no me puedo contener.

Con cuidado le explico la manera apropiada de cortar una piña según el plato que se vaya prepara: anillos delgados y redondos para una torta de piña patas arriba o pequeños cubos para acaramelar tiernamente con pimientas rojas, cebollas y cilantro para una especialidad de comida Floribeana de Vieiras de Mar Tropicales. Cuando termino de explicarle hasta el gerente que había estado observándome nerviosamente está listo para darme un cuchillo y una pequeña mesa de juego para dar clases de cocina en la esquina.

La ama de casa me da una mirada de desaprobación y sé lo que piensa: ella se pregunta por qué evitar la piña plástica de $5.99 para ésta, con toda la basura que producirá y el desastre pegajoso de tocar la fruta. Antes de que ella se pierda en el rincón oscuro de ignorancia, le explico la diferencia de sabor entre una fruta frescamente picada y una que ha vivido en un envase plástico. Le explico que no hay nada mas sabroso que perderse en el sabor dulce y pegajoso de una piña recién picada, y que aunque en su mundo estéril donde nunca lo ha hecho, le pareciera extraño y sucio, es, al contrario, una experiencia llena de sabor y vida que la dejara mas contenta aun.

Ella me escucha atentamente, ya casi convencida. Le informo que la piña se puede usar completamente: la concha sirve para un sabroso guarapo y la corona puede usarse de decoración o hasta para crear otra piña, si tiene paciencia. Le urjo que lo intente, que compre su piña completa y abandone los envases plásticos y cuando termine de hablar ella me dio las gracias y vi que ya tienia en sus brazos dos piñas completas, que cargó con ternura y orgullo, lista para conquistar el mundo, un trozo de piña a la vez.

What she didn’t know is that I dream of being a fish, a dolphin, a whale; anything slick and fast that navigates easily through salty waters, pushing all worries away.  Night after night after night I’d become this aquatic creature and slip through miles upon miles of space with only speed serving as my guide.  Occasionally I stir things up a bit and jump to the surface, sporadically breaking the wall of water for a moment of bright blue sky, hot sun, and prowling birds.  But that is gone in an instant, because once again I dive low and deep and swim, swim, swim, fast and furiously.

“You’re here practically every day, honey” she noted, slightly amused.  She was an older woman from one of the islands and she’d been working here for years, parked between produce and ...Read on]]>

What she didn’t know is that I dream of being a fish, a dolphin, a whale; anything slick and fast that navigates easily through salty waters, pushing all worries away.  Night after night after night I’d become this aquatic creature and slip through miles upon miles of space with only speed serving as my guide.  Occasionally I stir things up a bit and jump to the surface, sporadically breaking the wall of water for a moment of bright blue sky, hot sun, and prowling birds.  But that is gone in an instant, because once again I dive low and deep and swim, swim, swim, fast and furiously.

“You’re here practically every day, honey” she noted, slightly amused.  She was an older woman from one of the islands and she’d been working here for years, parked between produce and meats, serving sterile-looking bits of salmon and tilapia to shoppers weary of anything that wasn’t pork or beef.  It seemed I did make a daily stop to visit her and her fish.

She was trapped in this barren environment as I was, forced to sell remnants of the seafood she most definitely enjoyed heartily as a child growing up.  Seeing her brought me back to my childhood trips to Barbados, a sunny island filled with warm salty air, turquoise beaches and beautiful people.  Food was simple and direct in Barbados:  every Tuesday and Thursday morning the local fish market, which consisted of a decaying wooden table and three stumps of wood painted in faded reds and yellows, would come to life with whatever the local fishermen brought in.

I loved coming to the market.  It would always be hot and crowded and very chaotic, with a smell of dirt and fish guts that inevitably brought lots of flies.  There’d be the occasional dog or cat scamming for scraps and plenty of Bajan women dressed in bright colored dresses haggling over the fresh catch still squirming in the buckets.  It was smelly, hot, and teeming with people but it was alive, and I relished being the little blonde kid stuck in the middle of it all.  It didn’t take long; by noon the market was closed, all the fish was gone and the only remnant of any activity would be that happy stray cat licking a paw or two.

Some days it would be baskets upon baskets of flying fish- a tiny meaty fish with unusually large pectoral fins that enable it to take flight with each jump.  This is the  national fish of Barbados and it is a title that is not taken lightly. Flying fish abound, on t-shirts, store signs, and even coins.  In kitchens, they are served up slathered in Bajan spice (a mixture of nutmeg, cloves, and mace, amongst other ingredients ) and fried to a crisp alongside wedges of juicy limes.  If they didn’t end up on your plate you could see them jumping about carelessly through the water, swimming all worries away as I do in my sleep.

On other days the catch was bigger and the fishermen carried orange plastic buckets flapping with snapper or dolphin. The first time my father told me he had bought dolphin my blue eyes welled up with tears and the images of the kind and good man who was raising me was instantly replaced by new visions of a cruel and heartless Flipper killer. A ten-year old’s mind works fast.

“Dolphin?” was all I managed to mutter in my dismay.

My mother’s intuition salvaged the moment preventing further trauma with a casual chuckle and a quick clarification: 

“No, honey, not Flipper dolphin, a fish called dolphin.  It’s also called Mahi-Mahi.”

I liked the lyrical sound of Mahi-Mahi, but of course, now that I knew the truth, I preferred the shock value of telling folks I ate dolphin.   With that thought my eyes dried up and I was suddenly very hungry.

I soon learned it to be a delicious fish:  white and meaty with a firm texture, it too was prepared in the classic Bajan manner, slathered in herbs and pan-fried, enjoyed with a cold Coca-Cola (or a frothy Banks beer for the adults) and barefoot, sandy feet.    

Today I see my fish lady has a fresh batch of dolphin and I am inevitably drawn to it.  I am under neon lights in a large warehouse space, not under the warm and comforting Caribbean skies where I want to be.  This dolphin should be coming off the tiny fisherman’s boat in Barbados, I think to myself.  And, even though I don’t share the thought with her, I watch my fish lady with her graying hair, her sun-kissed smile, and her gold tooth, and I know that she must be thinking the same thing too. 

She weighs the fillets and wraps them for me, handing me my package with her usual grin.  I am thinking of how I will prepare my fish tonight.  Perhaps a dash of spice in a creamy sauce would be nice.  I suddenly have a craving for a cold beer too.

“See you tomorrow” she sings, and she knows it is true.  I always return to the sea, even if under these artificial lights.