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 can’t believe how hot South Florida can get.  I step outside at 7:00 am to pick up my newspaper (you know, that rectangular piece of plastic melting on my driveway) and I am hit by a wall of humidity and a whopping 91 degrees.  At 7:00 am remember. And we’re in September.

My son is excited by this weather harassment.  He can’t wait to try and fry an egg on our new VW Tiguan (‘Try papi’s car,’ I suggest.)  Well at least he’s got a culinary mind frame. I could look at this whole thing half-glass-full and celebrate a kid headed towards a creative cooking career that may lead to a house on the beach for his mama.  Yes, it will still be damn hot but at least there will be a breeze.

Right now there’s nothing.

Even my air-conditioning moans in ...Read on]]>

I can’t believe how hot South Florida can get.  I step outside at 7:00 am to pick up my newspaper (you know, that rectangular piece of plastic melting on my driveway) and I am hit by a wall of humidity and a whopping 91 degrees.  At 7:00 am remember. And we’re in September.

My son is excited by this weather harassment.  He can’t wait to try and fry an egg on our new VW Tiguan (‘Try papi’s car,’ I suggest.)  Well at least he’s got a culinary mind frame. I could look at this whole thing half-glass-full and celebrate a kid headed towards a creative cooking career that may lead to a house on the beach for his mama.  Yes, it will still be damn hot but at least there will be a breeze.

Right now there’s nothing.

Even my air-conditioning moans in complaint.  The usual threats:

‘I can’t do this much longer you know.  You’ve been talking about retiring me for five years now but I swear I’ve lived my last summer doing this crap and I will leave you now I will, I will. I’ll shut down and walk away.’

I know I ask for too much.  But the pool is tepid outside so all I’ve got to cool off is my sturdy RUUD a/c and my batch of soups that start coming out.

Those that know me know I am a soup gal and hot weather isn’t going to stop that one bit.  But before your brow gets flooded with sweat, take solace in this:

Chilled soups are fabulous, delicious, and do cool  you down.

Just as a cold winter night begs for a thick, hearty chowder or minestrone, a day fit for Haden yearns for a crisp chilled cucumber soup, a zesty, refreshing Gazpacho, or even a silky lemon-zest asparagus shot.  The options are endless, but the soup I keep going back to is one I had one hot day while walking down the cobble-stone steps of the lovely town of San Miguel de Allende in Mexico.  A friend and long-time resident had recommended a quaint restaurant called Bougainvillea for lunch and my husband and I diligently resorted to its courtyard filled with blossoming bougainvillea for, what would be, a memorable meal.  We started with the restaurant’s favorite: chilled avocado soup. It was both creamy and rich, served in a wide bowl that I thought was way too large a portion for one.    The avocado blended wonderfully with the cream and chicken stock and seemed to coat our souls with sustenance while instantly cooling us off from the blazing heat.  That large portion was quickly devoured leaving our palate longing for more.

Coming back home I tried to replicate this memory.  Lord knows the heat factor is in check.  I have a somewhat blossoming bougainvillea in my back garden but no cobblestone road.  Still,  the creamy, cool, nutty flavor did the trick at revitalizing my soul and taking the heat index down a notch.  Perhaps I can consider my saltillo tile as quaint as cobblestone.

But needless to say, summer brings on the glorious tomatoes.  The little ones, big ones, ugly ones- you name it, we have it.  I always feel a tad guilty eating just any old tomato.  You have to be careful nowadays, resourceful.  Make sure that baby is politically correct and not the byproduct of social injustice.  Our tomatoes got bad rap for that reason in the past.  So now I am diligent.  I go to my local farmer’s market, or, ...Read on]]> Summer is here. For Floridians it’s easy to note:  humidity and hurricanes. Lots of talk of both.  What used to be a pleasant sit outside, to read, to walk, to lounge, suddenly becomes a friggin’ sauna.  It’s okay. It’s all right. We Floridians are used to it.  Or we are all transplanted New Yorkers and used to kvetching.  Either way, it works.

But needless to say, summer brings on the glorious tomatoes.  The little ones, big ones, ugly ones- you name it, we have it.  I always feel a tad guilty eating just any old tomato.  You have to be careful nowadays, resourceful.  Make sure that baby is politically correct and not the byproduct of social injustice.  Our tomatoes got bad rap for that reason in the past.  So now I am diligent.  I go to my local farmer’s market, or, I grow my own.

Those that know me know I curse everything I grow. Everything.  Save for Lilly, my first baby, my lovely and sprawling Hibiscus plant. She loves me even if I sorely neglect her.  She sprouts neon pink flowers everywhere, spewing her love over the fence to the neighbors, spreading her happiness uninvited.  That’s Lilly.  She’s been around for twelve years now and is here to stay.

Which is why I thought it wise to plant my cherry tomatoes next to her. Maybe she could impart some wisdom upon them on how best to survive Alona Martinez. Or at least a gentle word or two when things went south, or at very least a pretty pink flower for the damn dying tomatoes to look at.

But a funny thing happened: the tomato plant and Lilly became fast friends.  And now there is a web of green, pink and red love tangled about in my back yard.  Embraces of Hibiscus and tomato reign, sing, dance shamelessly in my garden; flourishing in my neglect, they have each other and each other seems to be all they need.

I am grateful for this cohabitation. And a tad selfish too.  I am guilty of going out there and plucking the divine little round fruit of sunshine and claiming it mine.  It is really not. It belongs to Lilly.  But what is she going to do? Really?  So I’ve become a bully of sorts, you could say.  But I satiate any guilt by occasionally showering Lilly and her buddy with organic fertilizer. There.  Some people repent with diamond earrings.  I repent with fertilizer.  Organic fertilizer.

Those little round bursts of sunshine soon add up, and combining them with my farmer’s market tomatoes makes for a killer tomato soup.  Life isn’t whole without soup, particularly a lunch soup.  Want to win my heart? Make me soup for lunch. It’s that simple.  Really. So I am one step ahead of you and already on the go.  Lilly and Tomato Plant (yet to be named) are much appreciated and have won my heart already with this delicious soup.  Yum.  And thank you.

I’m gone.  Have up and left my fridge to its own devices as I recklessly and hungrily galavant throughout France, Israel and Spain for 2 weeks on a quest for incredible eats (and whatever may follow).  I trust a good story or two will come out of my trips.  Until then, make sure your fridge is as crazy-stocked as mine.  And if it gets out of control (my tolerance is high): make soup.

Happy Eating!

Me he esfumado. Abandone mi nevera imprudentemente para escaparme a una aventura que recurira partes de Francia, Israel y España durante 2 semanas en búsqueda de comida inolvidable. Confío que un buen cuento o dos saldrá de mis viajes. Hasta entonces, asegúrense que su nevera este tan orgullosamente llena como la mía. Y si empieza a descontrolarse, (mi tolerancia es alta): usen todas ...Read on]]>  

I’m gone.  Have up and left my fridge to its own devices as I recklessly and hungrily galavant throughout France, Israel and Spain for 2 weeks on a quest for incredible eats (and whatever may follow).  I trust a good story or two will come out of my trips.  Until then, make sure your fridge is as crazy-stocked as mine.  And if it gets out of control (my tolerance is high): make soup.

Happy Eating!

Me he esfumado. Abandone mi nevera imprudentemente para escaparme a una aventura que recurira partes de Francia, Israel y España durante 2 semanas en búsqueda de comida inolvidable. Confío que un buen cuento o dos saldrá de mis viajes. Hasta entonces, asegúrense que su nevera este tan orgullosamente llena como la mía. Y si empieza a descontrolarse, (mi tolerancia es alta): usen todas las verduras para una sopa.

Hasta mi regreso, les deseo un buen provecho!

It is with great secrecy that I pull the tiny foil cube out of its box.  I admit to being temporarily riddled by a wave of guilt, no doubt hordes of culinary experts would immediately disregard me as a cook not worthy of gastronomic attention if they knew I housed these in my closet, let alone used them.

The conspirators are my tiny bright yellow boxes of bouillon cubes.  I have all flavors attainable:  “cubito de pollo,” “cubito de carne” and “cubito de pescado,” with a haphazard scribble of a chicken, cow and fish to clarify.  I always buy the box in Spanish, no doubt it tastes exactly as salty and processed as its English counterpart, but I believe most things sound and feel better in Spanish: deja de jurungear (stop messing around), dando y dando, pajarito volando (scratch ...Read on]]>

It is with great secrecy that I pull the tiny foil cube out of its box.  I admit to being temporarily riddled by a wave of guilt, no doubt hordes of culinary experts would immediately disregard me as a cook not worthy of gastronomic attention if they knew I housed these in my closet, let alone used them.

The conspirators are my tiny bright yellow boxes of bouillon cubes.  I have all flavors attainable:  “cubito de pollo,” “cubito de carne” and “cubito de pescado,” with a haphazard scribble of a chicken, cow and fish to clarify.  I always buy the box in Spanish, no doubt it tastes exactly as salty and processed as its English counterpart, but I believe most things sound and feel better in Spanish: deja de jurungear (stop messing around), dando y dando, pajarito volando (scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours) la guayabera es vino tinto (the shirt is maroon).  Case in point.  So I stick to the lyrical and comforting bounce of “cubitos” instead of a formal, more somber bouillon cube and already I feel better.

When I was growing up in Venezuela our assortment of cubitos was proudly displayed amongst the bottles of imported dried rosemary, thyme and cardamom my mother would smuggle back from our annual trips to the States.  There was no shame to them back then.  Cubitos where just a part of every day meals our Colombian cook, Yolanda made, adding an extra boost of flavor and saltiness to each bite.

I remember watching her plop the tiny squares into vats of boiling soups, simmering shredded beef and pots of bubbling black beans as her final measure in bringing the dish to its appropriate end.  She was never one to mess with spices.  The cylindrical spice stand of imported goodies remained untouched, as much as my mother tried to encourage her to use them, explaining endlessly about the virtues of dried basil, curry powder, and allspice.  Yolanda pegged them as unfamiliar, from their tiny perfect glass bottles to their curly English labels she couldn’t understand, and left them alone, only occasionally wiping down the dust that settled on their tops.  She stuck to the basics:  salt, pepper, garlic and cubitos.

And sticking to this simple formula would produce, time after time after time, incredible meals.  It was an uncomplicated procedure really.  She’d grab the same bruised wooden spoon she used for everything (a large one carved out of Amazon wood with a burnt mark on the tip) and give the dish in question a quick stir or two, then proclaim:
“Ahora si esta”, (now it is done), as if the cubito was what sealed the deal.

Then she’d guide the huge spoon towards my inquisitive face, which seemed poised and ready for action during each meal-making session and allow me to sample the final product, which was always amazing.  The dish was most likely remarkable prior to the bullion’s arrival, but in my young mind, the little dark cubed paste was the magical ingredient that instantly transformed a meal into an experience.

Somewhere along the way my bouillon line got blurred and I began hiding mine and only slipping them into my cooking in the privacy of my kitchen when no one was looking.  I didn’t have a tiny swiveling stand with ten basic spices like my mother had had. I had two entire drawers filled with enough spice to run my own successful trade route and I used them brazenly.  But I still found the need to have my neon cubes nearby, for the soup that needed an extra kick, the meat dish that lacked a salty depth to it, or the paella that yearned for more than just shrimp shell broth. 

Cooking is as much about feeling as form and even though the venerable food institutions would immediately scoff at my random affairs with salty, neon culinary bliss, I confess to continue using them even after I’ve spent hours boiling chicken bones and necks to make a perfect homemade broth.  There’s just something about the occasional plop of neon that makes it all taste better.

My spoon isn’t as big as Yolanda’s but it is from the same weathered Amazon wood.  I stir my soup with it and pull out my yellow box for the final touch.  As if on cue, my ten-year old daughter races up to the stove.  “Now mom, now?” she asks, excitedly.  I haven’t taught her this, but she knows the dropping of the cubito will seal the deal.

I carefully unwrap the foil and let the cube descend to the bottom of the pot where in two seconds it has blended its saltiness with the soup.  Two big stirs follow and as the revised intoxicating aroma reaches me I inevitably find myself taking in a deep breathe and muttering,

“Ahora si esta.”

Good things come in small packages, so goes the cliché, and this week the small packages included two kids with lots and lots of dirty tissues. I should have picked up on the red flags hitting me in the face when my daughter began her typical deconstruction of events.

First, there was the academic question:

“Mom, are you sure we can’t feel the earth’s rotation on its axis?” (i.e., I’m dizzy as hell.)

Then, the philosophical question:

“If I am sweating like crazy, but I am not exercising, am I still sweating?”

(i.e., I am burning up a wicked fever; please oh please shove a thermometer in my mouth, mother.)

And finally, the biggest signal of them all, the culinary question:

“Do I have to eat something?”

(i.e., if you ...Read on]]>

Good things come in small packages, so goes the cliché, and this week the small packages included two kids with lots and lots of dirty tissues. I should have picked up on the red flags hitting me in the face when my daughter began her typical deconstruction of events.

First, there was the academic question:

“Mom, are you sure we can’t feel the earth’s rotation on its axis?” (i.e., I’m dizzy as hell.)

Then, the philosophical question:

“If I am sweating like crazy, but I am not exercising, am I still sweating?”

(i.e., I am burning up a wicked fever; please oh please shove a thermometer in my mouth, mother.)

And finally, the biggest signal of them all, the culinary question:

“Do I have to eat something?”

(i.e., if you know anything about me, it’s that I always, always, ALWAYS eat, so something is seriously wrong.)

My son, who is much more flamboyant in his angst with illness lay curled in a ball of misery, eyes puffed, full lips unusually fuller, eyelashes fighting to stay open occasionally throwing a groan out for whomever would care to capture it.

I chose to look away from all this, I confess. Even with the culinary question at hand and the fever-induced drama, there were too many things jotted into the week’s calendar to invite the flu over to play. Of course, I’ve been a mother long enough to know that this is precisely the time the flu decides to hit and hit hard. Before I could say the word “overscheduled” I found myself quarantined in my house with two infirm children, force-feeding glasses of water chased by jiggers of Tylenol and Advil watching the week and all its appointments slip by in the blink of an eye.

By the end of that first day the list of complaints was long and steady: sore throat, stuffy nose, achy bones and dizziness reigned and my patience was wearing thin. I admit to being a tad crass when it comes to nurturing sick ones, even if they are my sick ones. Nose-blowing and medicine dispensing have never been my forte especially under the guise of little sleep. But there was a glimmer of hope when the request arose for my “Israeli medicine,” which was my six-year old’s cry for Jewish penicillin, aka, chicken soup. Given the opportunity to feed them back to health all frustrations washed away and I transformed into a busy culinary caregiver with a keen sense of purpose quickly peeling carrots, rinsing leeks and chopping up potatoes.

The pot filled with goodness came to a slow simmer and before I knew it the air was infused with the simple marvels of chicken, carrots and potatoes. My children know me well and glowed through their haze of illness as I prepared them their soup. They are happier because I am happier, and as I slipped the parsley into the pot I caught a glimpse of them watching me and wondered for a moment if they’ve asked for this soup for them or for me?

I looked at them and smiled through the steam and they managed a grin back.

“Israeli medicine coming up”, I happily announced, suddenly feeling whole, purposeful, and strangely appreciative. Maybe it was the Tylenol or the hot bowl of soup they’d soon have, or the simple act of making me feel better for them to feel better. At any rate, I knew these packages where worthy keepers.