Beans are very much a tradition of Mexican and Mexican American culture. Once upon a time they were considered, “la comida del pobre”. They are a humble dish to serve, economical and available on the spot. “¿Quieres un taco de frijoles? is what my ama offered after school or practice. A bean taco, which was really a bean burrito because the beans were wrapped in one of her yummy flour tortillas. That was always available in my amas kitchen.When visita dropped in, a full meal was whipped up and offered, but when we got home, un taco would quiet our hunger down, until la cena. Beans were a staple in my amas kitchen.
Every week my ama boiled a large pot of pinto beans. I knew no other bean, frijoles de la olla, straight out of the pot, whole beans with bean broth, or frijoles fritos; refried beans, fried and mashed fresh each day. Con mucha vergüenza I confess that I got tired of eating them. By the time I left for college, I did not appreciate my amas beans anymore.
While I was far away from home, I missed everyone and everything from home. I was eating but did not care for my own cooking and the food in the cafeteria was way too bland. I missed my ama and her cooking. Ahora si, I missed the comfort of her frijolitos. there were days when one of her tacos de frijoles with a pickled jalapeño would have hit the spot. I couldn’t wait to get back home for summer break and rest my brain from textbooks and enjoy her perfectly refried beans in one of her homemade flour tortillas. Gracias a Dios I found a renewed appreciation for frijoles!
I found it hard to believe that beans were that easy to make. How could something so simple be so tasty? Especially, given that Mexican food is so flavorful and spicy. Otra confesíon, as a young wife, I tried “improving” my amas beans, because I imagined that beans would be so much more yummy with a chunk of onion and garlic in them as they cooked. I was wrong about that, and I picked up my amas method, just plain ole water, salt and lard or oil. However, like my ama I eventually settled into my own kitchen and “owned” my apron, that’s when I substituted the salt with bouillon instead. They were just as delicious as my amas beans, imaginate!
In my opinion, flavorful, spice infused Mexican food served with simple but tasty refried beans is the best.
Three steps to making Frijoles de la olla:
Primero, Clean them, make sure no small rocks or particles are in them. Segundo, Rinse them and put them in a pot, cover with plenty of fresh water, bring them to a boil, lower the flame to medium low and simmer them with the lid slightly slanted to allow steam out. After a while, add salt, ( or bouillon) . I usually wait until they are brown. Keep on simmering until they are soft. Taste them, they might need more salt, add more as needed. Listo! My ama liked to serve up a piping hot bowl of beans with diced onion, cilantro and jalapeno. Por su puesto that it must be accompanied with corn tortillas, acuerdense, salsa was always available on my amas table. Pero, mostly we enjoyed the beans refried.
Frijoles Fritos are just as easy to make:
In a skillet pan my ama melted lard or oil. When it got hot and ready, she transferred the beans from la olla with a slotted cooking spoon to drain the bean broth as much as possible, although some did transfer. Con cuidado! They always spit and splattered loudly as they hit the hot grease, but in true latina fashion she knew how to avoid any burns. With one hand holding her slotted spatula filled with beans, she leaned back as they touched the melted grease. Luego, she allowed the beans to simmer a while before mashing them. As they continued to simmer the broth evaporated. They were perfectly ready in minutes.
Through the years I have mastered her easy 1, 2, 3 method, taking little notice of the spitting beans because, like my ama, I lean back as I transfer them into the hot oil. “Frijoles aguaditos” is how I like to serve them, with plenty of the bean broth, thick but runny, Honestly, the translation “watery beans” kills the muy delicioso vibe. Pero creeme, even though they are simple, they are very tasty. I’ll serve them with a side of Mexican rice to accompany the main dish. Or I use them on top of nachos or as the first layer on tostadas. If I serve them in a burrito, it will include meat also.
En conclusíon
Beans remain a part of the Mexican meal, but they are no longer just “a poor man food” They are a popular pretty much everywhere. I’m glad I learned to make and appreciate my amas beans once again. I do not serve them everyday, but often enough. Thankfully, my gringo husband appreciates them. Mi hijo Thomas always gives me the “good cook” thumbs up that I’ve learned to count on. Enjoy a bowl of beans or a taco de frijoles, it’ll do you some good.
Do you know what capirotada is? If you’re Mexican and you don’t know, let me at least catch you up with my limited knowledge. Capirotada is a dessert that my ama made during Easter time, it’s the only time of the year we ate it. It was one of those traditions that are just a part of your life and you just accept it, no questions asked.
Pero, this week I’ve been wondering about Capirotada. When I’ve googled capirotada, it’s categorized as bread pudding because of the bread, fruits, and spices. Somehow it doesn’t feel right to call it that. My amas Capirotada included corn tortilla in the ingredients! It is such a strange and tasty dessert. This week I’ve learned a bit of the religious history behind it. It was interesting, pero para mi, capirotada is just a segway to a sweet memory of my ama in the kitchen. Here are the important ingredients, or the ones that my tastebuds remembered.
In true Mexican fashion Capirotada dessert has tortillas in it. It is layered starting with corn tortillas at the bottom of the pan. Then comes the toasted birrote slices. I can see my ama arranging the slices, making sure to cover the entire pan. Luego, she sprinkled the top of the bread with peanuts, ciruelas y pasas. Prunes and raisins were the only fruits I remember that she added into the mix. Then she covered those ingredients with a sugary syrup that was made from Pilloncillo which is another one of those ingredients you will most likely find in a Mexican kitchen. She had several meticulous layers so by the time she layered on the chunks of cheese I lost interest and went outside to play. Hijole! It was not a fancy dessert, but now I know that it involved a good amount of prep work and cooking time. How disappointing, because although I enjoyed eating my amas capirotada, I didn’t want to make it. Pero gracias a Dios, my big sister came to the rescue again!
Asi es, last week my sister told me that she was going to make capirotada! She hoped she could make it like our ama. Although I was skeptical, I was happy, porque pues, it was very possible that I could come really really close to tasting my amas capirotada, oh sweet memories. We talked about the ingredients. Her best memory was the delicious melted cheese in it, but she also remembered the details about the process of making it. My greatest concern was that she made sure to add corn tortilla to the layers. I mean, it doesn’t make sense that a dessert has tortillas in it, pero, my ama added tortillas and I was sure that if Marina was going to succeed at making my amas capirotada she must add the key ingredient, corn tortillas. She promised to bring me a sample when she did it so that I could tell her the honest truth; could she even come close though? Estaba preocupada, what if she didn’t make it right? Would I hurt her feelings? Hijole!
Last weekend we met in Pine Valley Ca. It was a beautiful dayfull of quality time together but first things first, we made the most important transaction of the day, which was the capirotada. In a nice floral cooler bag she had packaged very carefully, her version of my amas capirotada, I was both excited and nervous to receive my prize. It was a beautiful day. My nietas and my bestie were part of the date. They played and we talked, a win-win arrangement. The recent rains have made San Diego County beautiful again, Pine Valley is as green and pretty as ever. We met at the park so the girls could play in the playground, mientras platicamos.
Luego, in between more platica we went shopping at the nearby outlet center. Y por supuesto, shopping and talking makes you hungry. The day passed a little too quickly, before we knew it the girls were hugging their tia “Rina” goodbye. I drove away with capirotada on my mind. Imaginate, it had been years since I’ve had that wonderfully strange once a year dessert. I imagined my ama layering her casuela, making sure the tortillas went in first.
My sister called to ask if I tried it. I had not. I wanted to be all in, I didn’t want a full stomach to mess up my taste test. I waited until the next day to try the capirotada. I warmed it in the microwave, then my flaco said “I want to try it.” I couldn’t tell if he was just being polite,I served and watched him while my own serving warmed in the microwave. I was a bit dramatic about slowly getting my coffee and my spoon and sitting at the table with my capirotada. I asked Ben, “What did you think? Was it good?” He said, “Yes, it was alright, it reminded me a little bit of apple pie? Que?! I should not have asked him. I carefully bit into it, all the ingredients in one spoonful. The sweet and salty flavor came alive in my mouth. She did it! The capirotada was sweet enough, but not too sugary. The bread was bread pudding-ish and the mixture of the fruit and nuts blended so nicely. Y pues the tortilla was in the mix somehow bringing it all together. Immediately I called her, I had to tell her everything, about my worry and how I was so wonderfully relieved and happy to know my amas capirotada would come again at Easter.
En Conclusion
If you’ve never had capirotada, I encourage you to try it. Asking my sis for the recipe may be tricky though because like my Ama, we tend to cook without measurements or recipes. My bestie said “Mexican food has a very distinct way of combining flavors” Capirotada is definitely distinct, it’s a good combination of sweet and salty and soft and crunchy. Gracias a Dios for traditions that live on.
This might be a bit of a “rambling on” post as I try to fasten on to “something” and find myself in the discussion of ethnicity.
My parents are Mexican immigrants, and I, their 8th child, was born and raised in the United States. I have always called myself Mexican, I don’t say “of Mexican descent”, just simply Mexican born in the U.S, es muy facil. Pero, at the same time, my fellow Americans, like my cold blooded Englishman will ask “Doesn’t that make you American of Mexican descent?” Like I said, it’s easy, I am Mexican-American.
The Pocha Treatment
When I was in Mexico recently, after hearing me speak, the people I was around probed into my birthplace. My strong latina features could have settled the matter, pero my “American accent” (I didn’t know I had an “American” accent) pointed me al otro lado. De donde eres? Where am I from? Where exactly was I born? I’m from California, Porque? Why were they even questioning? Somehow that bothered me. Was I gonna get the“Pocha” treatment? Where there is an immediate disdain for American born “Mexicans” if their Spanish is not fluent.
One lady assumed that I was born in Mexico, not an outlandish assumption I guess, but then I spoke, y pues, if I’m from America I will speak like an American, a Mexican-American that is. Are you tracking? I found myself explaining a few times that while I was born in America, my parents were from Jalisco, this was my Mexican card. There are lots of feelings that can arise in this distinction, a defensiveness about my Spanglish, a fear of rejection, a stubbornness that says, I love America. I’m different from the “real” Mexicans, but I’m not, it’s in my blood, my roots and my descendancy.
I didn’t want to be treated as a Pocha, or criticized for speaking bad Spanish. When I’m speaking with Mexicans that speak Spanish fluently, I am very aware of my Spanglish. My brain works extra hard to translate English words into Spanish, I sometimes get frustrated that these Mexicans don’t “Spanglish.” After repeated attempts at Spanglish, it gets messy at times. I tend to apologize for my “broken Spanish.”
Gracias a Dios, that my familia and my friends were very gracious and patient. I didn’t feel disrespected or mocked, my “Americanness” didn’t keep them from connecting with me or embracing me. When we were cozy with each other, I appreciated when they corrected me and they enjoyed the Spanglish they picked up from me.
En Conclusion:
Those days in Mexico with my flaco, were much needed, our friendship flourished and our marriage covenant was strengthened. Mi esposo, did very well in Mexico. In full immersion mode, he enjoyed the hospitality of our Mexican culture and he used his gift of patience as he listened to the fast Spanish talk. He was able to understand bits and pieces and stayed engaged in the conversation. When things got out of his reach he asked me for help 🙂 After 34 years of being infused with our romantic language, he should himself be a fluent “Spanglisher.” Why hadn’t I taught him? Pero, I have always pushed that responsibility on him. My gringo felt the admonishment and so he practiced the few words he already knew and was rewarded with encouragement.
Embracing My Multicultural Life
While I was in Mexico only too aware of my language shortcomings, my familia didn’t laugh at me or criticize the many bloopers, they embraced this Mexican American girl and lavished a grand opening to their lives and welcomed me and my Benjamin with open arms. I am looking forward to further connection with them and looking forward to sharing with them how God has blessed me in my Christian, American and Mexican cultures; it is a rich life.
All this wedding activity stirred me up for a love story. I went back and pulled up a story I pieced together a few years ago from the fragment pieces of information that my apa and ama had shared through the years. One day as I was feeling muy romantica I asked my father “How did you meet my Ama?” He dropped this into my brain and heart:
“En la Fiesta del Señor, le ofrecí una flor ye ella la acepto, y alli empezo” I melted with anxious desire to know more. When you offered that flower, who was she with? What’s La Fiesta Del Señor? What was she wearing? Y muchas mas preguntas, details that a girl needs to have. This story is grounded in facts but does have plenty of embellishments to tie it all in. I can only imagine the hardship they experienced trying to make ends meet and the pain my ama suffered when dad came to America leaving her and the baby. I filled in the gaps to write their story.
Promesas
Maria ran inside breathless and Angel came zooming in behind her, bending down she lifted him up, Ugh! He was getting so big, nuzzling him, while she looked over at her husband’s picture on the small table she whispered “He’s coming home baby, Apa viene a casa.” She missed him so much, but Angel wasn’t affected by her news, he didn’t know the man in the picture. It was another reality that pointed to their “separate lives” marriage. She studied his handsome face and lean body, standing tall in his Levi Strauss jeans and cowboy hat, looking tan Americano. It seemed like an eternity since he had left, worrying that he wouldn’t come back. She had spent too many days angry with her husband for leaving, but today, despite her fears, and his obvious change, she embraced the yearning she felt for him and allowed herself to remember how wonderful his full lips felt on her. She hugged her toddler tight, and whispered “you’re going to love your Apa” trying to stop the memory of the day he had left.
***
“No llores”. He hated her tears.
“Chuy, We talked about this. I need to feed my family and I need money to do that. I must go. En el otro lado, I’ll make lots of money and then come home quickly, before you know it!”
“Por favor no te vayas. Think of your hijo” Maria clung to him, hoping that duty to his son would keep him home with her.
“I’m not leaving you like that! Comprendeme, I need to go? My mother will help you with the baby” He pulled her close.
“You don’t have to leave Manuel, I will work”
He stiffened at her words and pulled her away from him.
“You work too hard, too long, too much. Look at you, you’re pale, you’re too thin, and the dark circles under your eyes accuse me. What kind of a man am I to allow this?
“Oh, I see.” She hugged herself trying to hide her unattractiveness from him.
“I should have left a long time ago, then I would already be back with plenty of dólares to sustain us. I’ll send money, I promise you will not have to work so hard.”
“No Manuel, don’t leave. I promise to take better care of myself. You’ll have better eyes for me, please don’t leave. I don’t care if everyone else is living like this. I hate seeing families separate! Wives are forgotten while husbands go off to chase dolares and who knows what else!”
“I’ll return quickly, te lo prometo” He reached for her but she turned and ran to the bathroom. His promise of a quick return pierced her while she vomited her breakfast and crumbled to the floor, holding her abdomen. Their family was growing and he was leaving. Receiving a letter meant his prolonged stay, yet not receiving a letter provoked such worry in her. What if he got ill? What if he decided not to come home?
***
Querida Chuy,
I hope you and Angel are well. I am now situated in a small room in Mexicali, Baja California, tomorrow I will look for more work on the other side, the gringos are always looking for strong help so it has been easy to get work and make money. There is plenty of work, I’ll be able to make a lot of money. Hace mucho calor! The heat is almost unbearable, pero me aguanto! knowing that you and Angel need me I will endure this inferno. The money I’ve sent should cover all the household expenses for a while. Como esta mi hijo? Tell him that I love him, saludos a tu familia.
Que Dios te bendiga, te lo desea
Manuel
***
At first she had been too angry to tell him about the pregnancy. After the morning sickness had passed, she was well and so was their son. Life didn’t change much for Angel, he had quickly adopted her oldest brother; Chino as his dad and life was peachy for him. Gracias a Dios that she had him to fill her days. The baby safely grew in her womb and she yearned for her husband. She reminded herself often “He said he would come back” Maybe, telling him about the second baby would prompt him to return quickly and be with her when her time came. She wrote him a letter hoping it would arrive quickly, there wasn’t much time.
Her heart was broken when she went into labor, she received a letter and more money to sustain them comfortably, but no mention of the baby. Alone she welcomed their second son and called him Arturo.
***
Eventually a letter did reach him in the Sierra Nevada mountains. His patron needed a sheep herder and he needed to keep working. A numbingly cold and lonely job, just him, the horse, Kazam the dog and the sheep in the cold outdoors. The patron had brought supplies and mail, he was ready for news from home. A letter from his wife and mother, good news he hoped. Que?! “Manuel estoy embarazada” Maria wrote that she was pregnant, But his mother had said in her letter “El niño y Chuy are just fine but come as soon as you’re able” Un hijo?!
***
“Apa, Apa” Angel clapped his chubby hands “Tío, mi apa!” Angels enthusiasm brought her back, “No, baby, your uncle is not your daddy. Your daddy is coming back from El Norte very soon, maybe today you’ll meet him again” she pressed on her breast as they filled with milk, “He’s coming back! And you and your baby brother will have apa home!” Angel laughed as she twirled him around, “Our family will be together again, everyone will see that we were not abandoned. She stopped abruptly in front of her broken mirror “Wow! I’ve changed so much too”
She put her son down and touched her head, so much of her hair had fallen out during her pregnancy. Her body was still flabby from her labor and delivery. her skin pale from lack of sleep, she wondered what Manuel would think of her now. She pulled on her face, peering into the mirror piece “ aayy! que fea estoy. Ugly!” She accused the image just as Arturo wailed for his lunch, her hands flew to her breast, she winced at how hard they got if she waited too long to nurse the baby. She hesitated, looking again into her broken mirror, if Manuel walked in right now, he would notice her full rounded breast, maybe that wasn’t so bad. Beauty would have to wait again, her boys were hungry. The baby wailed demanding to be nursed and Angel pulled on her skirt, asking for a taco, he too was hungry. Manuel was coming soon and she had to do something about herself, she said to the mirror piece ”I’ll be back and maybe you’ll help me see the areas I can work on.” She ran to get a tortilla for Angel and then picked up her screaming baby. While the baby gurgled at her breast she sighed ready to end this separation and the anxiety it produced.
She remembered her mother in-laws inability to understand her. It didn’t matter that young wives and their babies were being abandoned at epidemic proportions, while young husbands imagined streets paved with dolares. Did Manuels mother think her anxieties were unfounded? Dona Rosario was confident that her son would be loyal to his family and return as soon as he was able. It was Marias job to care for the boys and make a nice home for them with his money. She hated when Maria wasted money, and the mirror had been a waste.
“Why do you need a mirror Maria? You need to be wise with the money my son sends you.” “Pero, Doña Rosario, how am I supposed to keep myself beautiful for your son if I can’t see what I look like? “No buts Maria, don’t waste money, you need to worry more about Angel and the baby that will be here soon” “No señora I need it so that if Manuel returns I will have maintained myself” She was careful all the way home, then Angel raced out to meet her and when the mirror slipped to the ground it broke in two pieces, with no time to regret it, she swooped her toddler up and took him inside so she could pick up her mirrors.
She looked into the mirror as she burped her baby, “Doña Rosario was right, Manuel is coming home and you, Mirror Mirror you really didn’t help, but you certainly taunted me every time you pointed out how unraveled I’ve been. She adjusted her dress and planted a kiss on Arturo’s cheek.
She got busy with the meager meal, glad that soon they would eat more than frijoles, she was tired of beans. She poured the last of the lard into the hot pan and waited for it to get hot then poured the beans into it. They sizzled then splattered, spitting on to her cheek, “Owww!” she hissed and turned to her mirror piece and it seemed to laugh at her with her red blotchy cheek. She sighed and was glad when her toddler took the plate of beans with such gusto, as if she had served him a steaming hot bowl of pozole, the hominy chicken soup was his favorite. She smiled and hoped that there would be enough tortillas to satisfy her growing boy. She knew Manuel had not left her to chase a dream, but to take care of them. When Manuel came they had too much business to attend to, her appearance shouldn’t matter now, but again she glanced in the mirror piece “Oh no! Now I’ll have a scar! She should get rid of that accusing glass! Tears of anxiety squeezed from her eyes as much as she was determined not to cry over such vanities. Worry marked her face as Angel ran to her and asked “Mama? Coco?” And reached up for her. “Si, Angel, just a little owie” she hugged him as a tear rolled down her face, Manuel was coming home, he promised.
Manuel walked in, quietly watching his wife and son. Angel looked up and snapped “NO! Swinging at the stranger as he clung to his mother. “Amor, que te pasa?” Maria looked up wondering what was wrong as her son’s anxiety accelerated “No, no!” Maria swung around and there stood her beautiful husband, he looked like a dark American under his cowboy hat, his blue jeans and boots. She shrunk back anxious, noticing the American in him and his presence reminded her that she was quite undone. While Angel swung to protect his mother from the stranger she slowly took in how good he looked. Manuel reached for the screaming toddler, murmuring his name. “Angel, Mi hijo” Angel screamed in terror “Amaaa!” Maria smiled, “Ya mi amor, ya. There There” She said between tears, “Es tu papa” Manuel quickly closed the gap and embraced them both. There in his arms Maria let the tears of relief roll down her cheeks, slumping her shoulders, she allowed Manuel to take care of his family.
I was having a quiet moment with my daughter, por supuesto que we were talking about very important matters, when her ears perked up, I could see in her face that she was making a calculation about something in her head. Then as I heard my grandbaby crying, her youngest son who’s not so baby, she put her attention back to our conversation. I had already put on my “Ama al rescate” cape. I was ready to rescue him. I said “Don’t you hear?” She calmly responded “yes, but I can tell he’s not hurt, they’ll work it out” A pos si! I’d forgotten that a mother can recognize and distinguish the different alarms her child sounds. And usually she knows when to run to him, or when he’s safe and he must figure it out. Hijole! I was all tangled up in my “rescue cape” Don’t get me wrong, I know moms (me) who have missed the cry for help or were too slow, but God helped us. Thankfully, in todays story, my Ama arrived to pull Fernando out of his mess!
The American Dream
Para mi familia, coming to “El Norte” was a slow process that began in Mexicali Baja California, a border city. This is where many other immigrants began their pursuit of the “American Dream. My apa worked across the border and my ama probably worked harder at taking care of their growing family. They went to live in a colonia where housing and plumbing wasn’t very personal and definitely not cozy. The need for housing intensified as people were arriving. One “solution” to the growing population and daily needs was to build shared outhouses in the colonia. Everything in my sheltered inexperienced mind is grappling with the idea of leaving my house to use the bathroom. Pero pues, I’m trying to understand the logic behind this solucion. Gracias a Dios, that children are different. They’re resilient, they see most things as adventures.
Un dia, while my ama was busy, the kids were out playing. Fernando was out in the colonia playing ball with his friends, he doesn’t remember if he was playing soccer, but he was hard at play. Y de repente! That’s how it is with latinos, every story has an “all of a sudden!” element. They all noticed the BIG hole in the ground and curiosity got a hold of them. After having raised three boys myself, I can attest to the fact that boys like to take curiosity to another level! After some speculation they concluded that the ollo was for the new outhouse that was coming soon. They peered into it, they sized it up and one another and put out the challenge. “Who can get out of the ollo?” They all decided they could easily, no problem. Right here, I’ll embellish Fernandos story, because he doesn’t remember, and I have faced 3 little boys who ALWAYS did everything better and faster. Is it possible that Chapparro was too eager to top all the other boys? Por supuesto que si! And before he knew it, they were all daring him to prove it. He faced that hole and the dare, I can only imagine how much time he took ruminating about the act of the big jump. For sure the voices of his friends echoed in his mind. “You can’t do it” “Tienes miedo” and then, he was in the hole. When he looked up, his friends were gone and he was stuck. A hole that was all of a sudden an insurmountable height, maybe five feet high, he was about 3 ft high himself. Panic struck him as he realized that he couldn’t get out, forever trapped in the newly dug outhouse hole. It took him no time at all to sound his alarm. “Ama! Ama!” No response. Panic gripped him and his voice went up a notch “Ama! Ama!” and the tears gushed as he cried “Amaaa! Amaaa!” The ollo was closing in on him as he screamed for ama. And then she was there, relief flooded him.
The Board of Education
When he was out of the hole, his relief lasted a moment because he had to face ama and answer the questions. “Porque hiciste eso?” She would never understand his need to prove himself, but he would have to learn quickly that he must stay away from dangerous scenarios. And for that short quick lesson the ‘board of education’ was needed. Fernando says that one of his grade school teachers referred to the paddle for disciplining like this. Ya se, this is a sensitive topic, so I’m just sharing facts, ama spanked him as needed, y pues all of her children felt the “board of education” as needed. She didn’t beat or abuse him, she loved him. The lesson of not following the crowd, or listening to the voices of foolishness would be ongoing lessons that everyone faces.
Gracias a Dios that my ama learned how to discern those different cries we let out as we experienced life and came to our rescue, aid or encouragement as needed. It’s pretty special to watch a mom in action when her child cries out. I have a beautiful friend who sometimes will hear her kids cry and doesn’t follow the crowd of moms who sometimes apapachan, you know hover and immediately pull their child out of their distress, without giving him/her a chance to work things out and learn their own boundaries and establish them. This fiesty latina, will hear and recognize their need and choose not to be anxious for them.
Whether or not a mother hovers about and runs to every cry, or picks and chooses which cry is a genuine emergency, the main thing is that a mother hears her child’s cries.
Halloween always creeps up on me and it has always been a sticky tricky day for me. When I was a little girl in Imperial Valley, I had to do what I could to make it fun. Then as an adult I tried to ignore the day as much as possible, like my ama tried. Imposible! kids don’t let you ignore it. One of the biggest candy hoarding days of the year, parents need to recognize, verdad que si?
Planning Halloween
As a little girl, it was the one holiday that I rallied for as far as dressing up. Don’t get me wrong, I was not trying to be a princess or any silly girly character. But the unwritten and unspoken rule was that to trick or treat you had to be in costume. I would start working on my mom and sisters a few days ahead. I needed three things to make my day a success. Primero, I needed permission and a chaperone or partner to go out and knock on doors for candy. Luego, I needed money for the yearly carnival and finally, I needed a costume. Halloween was up to me, my ama didn’t highlight the day in any way shape or form. She kind of dreaded the day, because all the kids in the barrio knew she had her tiendita, and they expected some great candy from her store. Halloween almost always meant bankruptcy for her negocio.
The week before Halloween the kids were talking about what they were gonna dress up as, or what costumes their mom had bought them. I was always embarrassed that I wasn’t getting a cool costume so every year I said I wasn’t dressing up. Every year I said it was dumb and every year I didn’t mean it. Y cada ano I’d give into the pull of trick or treating.
Now that I think about it, my ama always enjoyed my silly chicanadas that I called costumes. I would jimmy rig a costume mostly out of my apas clothes and get into my sister’s makeup. Que one year a baby, another year a hobo, a fat man, a farmer. Basically the same idea always with a different name.
In small towns I think growing up and getting to that serious behavior that a 12 year old should have, takes a little longer. I was not serious about growing up and morphing into a teenager. I didn’t care much about being cool, I couldn’t start thinking of makeup, gracias a Dios! Wearing Makeup was taboo for us younger girls.Silly boys weren’t noticing me yet. Pero, I was real serious about getting lots of candy.
One particular year, I had secured permission and a partner to trick or treat, my sister Patty was gonna keep an eye on me. I always had to work extra hard on begging and pleading with Patty. She hated taking care of me, she was already in that cool teenage age and walking clear across town to trick or treat was not cool! I promised to give her a lot of candy and quien sabe what else I promised, but in the end I prevailed upon her.
DIY Costumes
All I had left to create was my costume for my night of fun and candy. I had the same old options so I think I decided on a combo costume of an old fat hobo man, muy original verdad? Being giddy with excitement I decided to go extra on the fat and stuffed my pants and shirt, bien exagerada, I could barely move.I was ready, with my big bag on hand, we left. The getting to the carnival part is a fuzzy memory, I’m guessing that somebody gave us a ride there because I can’t imagine Patty agreeing to all that work. Anyway, we were at the carnival for a short time since my pocket book was very light. It didn’t matter to me anyway, I was anxious to trick or treat a lot of kids already all over town, I didn’t want to miss out.
To maximize on trick or treating candy you have to have a lot of energy and a good plan. Patty wasn’t interested in the plan I had mapped out in my head. She gave me one option. Leaving the school grounds and walking past the middle school and the elementary school, all connected, then turning left would land me on the West side. Going further, past the Circle K then turning right going several blocks further got me to the Rich side of town. Guess what Patty was pushing for? She was getting crabby and I was getting anxious, especially since I was pretty slow with my fat man costume. The padding kept creeping down my leg, almost tripping me. I kept having to re-stuff myself and hold on to my backside to keep the pillow from falling out.
El Cucuy
But God had mercy on me and we got to several houses that gave lots of candy before she headed us toward home. I milked it as much as I could knocking on doors as we made our way home. I was whiny and grunting and she was so mad that I had tricked her into doing this, we were both pretty tired by the time we reached the railroad tracks. Suddenly our senses were very alert and we had to put off our tired feelings, and watch out for danger, of the El Cucuy kind. We were on Mainstreet, it was way too dark to take the shortcut. Huge semi trucks occasionally passed by and we so appreciated the bright lights those trucks flashed, we stayed dangerously close to the pavement, hugging it. I, the “fat man” was behind Patty and every time I heard crackling, or scraping sounds, I was sure El Cucuy was behind me, I couldn’t turn around, it would be my demise, so I quietly whined, hating my sissy lala emotions. I’m not the hugging type, but that night I was ready to pounce on my sister for support. Talk about a Halloween nightmare on Mainstreet, hijole! Crossing the tracks and walking that long dark road just before we saw the houses of the barrio was maybe a 10 minute walk but my stuffing and the darkness made it the longest walk ever. Suddenly, I could appreciate why my ama banned us from being out at night. Halloween was one of the few exempted days and I wondered why that day was ok? We walked fast as I was trying to keep my belly intact.
It wasn’t too late in the night, but those railroad tracks and the empty lots made it the perfect scene in a scary movie, I had imagined it all in those few minutes. Such relief flooded us when we entered the safety of our barrio. Kids were still out and about and Patty loosened up. I took advantage and knocked on a couple more doors in my hood. All was well that Halloween. Pero que susto!
Booty
We got home exhausted. I tossed my hefty candy bag onto the table, happy with my loot. Oh how sweet home was. I plopped myself down on the chair in the dining room, I was coming undone. So as I was pulling the stuffing out of me my ama was laughing at the image I created.
Ama: Como te fue?
Me: Ama, fue el día más feliz de mi vida!
My mother let out a gleeful carcajada.. Her way of laughing started from the bottom of her belly and rolled out past her mouth. I loved to make her laugh, it was always so contagious. She had quite a laugh out loud moment.
Counting all my worldly experiences of all my 12 years of living, I had declared, this had been the happiest day of my entire existence. I had already forgotten the pain in the butt it had been to walk. El Cucuy didn’t come for me, the tracks and all my fears were forgotten.
LOL
I was pretty proud of myself whenever she told the story of my “happiest day of my life”. I’m so happy to have that treasure in my vault. The contagious laughter has carried on through her grandson Jonathan, everytime he has that LOL gut roaring laughter I remember my feisty ama.
These past few weeks have been trying times. Sickness hovers over our lives trying to scare us into a corner of not living but existing. Hard times and bad news, make us desperate por tener un momento de tranquilidad. As we hold our breath not knowing what to expect, tears wash out and my heart aches for those loved ones I will not see again until eternity. Not knowing the appointed time, the wait feels endless.
I will not lie and say I’ve sat and “waited” for the day I see my ama again, she’s been gone for over 30 years, but I have longed through the years for that mother/daughter relationship & connection. I have a sister in Christ, my friend who has five beautiful daughters, and oh, I can tell those girls have connected with their momma. Me acuerdo, when I was a new homemaker, “building” my own home. I was barely a few weeks on the journey, I was given a chance to call my ama. I was having a cooking crisis and she rescued me, the stroke she had (a post for another time) didn’t hinder her from coming to my aid.
In her cooking stilo, como todas las mexicanas she set me straight:
Me: “Ama, ¿cuáles son los chiles que se usan para la carne con chile?”
Ama: “Pues ¿cuales son los que tienes? “
I had forgotten those cooking lessons with my ama! The main lesson was work with what you have, but make it work! I wonder if I’ll be able to share with her my mothering experience with my one daughter? Aguanten me por favor, Un poco culeca. Mi ama would see my daughter and fall in love with her immediately.
Y mis hermanas, Patty and Lupe, se adelantaron! They rushed ahead of me and Marina almost 13 years ago and beat us to heavens gates. I won’t pretend that I wasn’t angry. I had quite a few things to teach my “older” sisters and they me. In the middle of my busy life, while we 4 sisters were enjoying and sharing the episodes of life, they finished their race within 3 months of each other. In shock I had to say goodbye for now. Pero sabes, death always feels like that, when you expect it, and while you wait for your loved one to pass, you’re still shocked by it, when you don’t expect it, it knocks you down and takes your breath away.
My apa, no tenia prisa, gracias a Dios , almost took him a century to walk this road on earth. Geographically he was in very small places, almost insignificant, but he broke up much fallow ground and planted many seeds of experience and left quite a legacy of children and grandchildren to carry his name on. Eso! Don Manuel!
He has only just gone home 8 months ago and the void of his departure esta muy tierno aun. In our home our backroom is still “Tatas room”
I will say that I’ve occupied myself with a goal, a hope or God’s plan to see them again.
My Dad’s Prayer of Gratitude
This long season of pestilence has caused me to examine life. What are the things that I’m grateful for? The big things and the minute details of my life that I tend to take for granted sometimes, like my daily bread and the very air I breathe that God gives. It was a solidifying reminder to finds my dads prayer.
For as long as I could remember my apa prayed this prayer at meal times. I can picture him now at our table, ready and waiting to see if he would be called upon to pray.
“Gracias te damos Senor por estos alimentos que no nos hacen falta. También Señor te pedimos por todos aquellos que no tienen alimentos. Ayúdalos y dales la mano, no los desampares. Perdónanos nuestros pecados , pero siempre que se haga tu santa voluntad. Amén”
Sometimes a line or two was switched up, but it had the same meaning:
“Gracias te damos Senor por estos alimentos que no nos pones en la mesa. También Señor te pedimos por todos aquellos que no tienen alimentos. Ayúdalos y dales la mano, no los desampares. Perdóna nuestros ofensas, pero siempre que se haga tu santa voluntad. Amén”
As if someone switched on the lights, I have truly paid close attention to my apas prayer and realized how profound it truly was. Too many times we throw our prayers out to God without any real conviction, especially at mealtimes, were hungry and we’ve been waiting for that good food so were in a hurry. Hijole!Imaginate, as God sits down to eat with us and hears our “Thank you Jesus, bless this food” my fork halfway to my mouth already, I say “amen”. Maybe it’s because I’ve had a good morning in my prayer already that I am careless when I thank God for his provision. Whatever the reason, prayer at mealtimes in my life has been lackadaisical. Once in a while, I whisper in my mind, I really am grateful Lord, y si estoy agradecida! despite my mouthful. My apas prayer has reminded me to be grateful for my life, for the blessings and most importantly grateful for the Blesser.
Aguanta otro ratito while I unpack his prayer.
“Estos alimentos que no nos hacen falta”
Thankful for his provision. These days as many fight for their lives, the very air we breathe is a gift from God. ALL our basic needs are remembered in this simple line.
“También Señor te pedimos por todos aquellos que no tienen alimentos. Ayúdalos y dales la mano, no los desampares”
Thankful that we can approach the very throne of God for our needs and our loved ones. They’re too weak, too tired, too much in pain to ask for themselves, but we can stand in the gap for them. A thoughtful prayer that remembers those that are struggling and asks God to also help them in their time of need. Orita mismo, I can think of several friends, loved ones, and friends of friends that are in desperate need.
“Perdóna nuestros ofensas”
Thankful that God, the creator of heaven and earth graciously forgives our trespasses. I find it interesting that this line for forgiveness is after asking for the basic needs for ourselves and others. Asking forgiveness of our daily trespasses, my apa knew that even while our needs are endless so is God’s comfort and grace. A prayer that humbly acknowledges our sinful state that without God in our lives we would be wretched and lost.
I’m so glad that finally my heart has grabbed ahold of this prayer and I agree with Dad in it and say yes and amen!
Today let these words provoke you into true thanksgiving.
My dad went home on a Sunday afternoon; December 20th at 2:15 (He asked everyday when he would go home). He had just turned the corner into his 96 birthday. I don’t think a short post can uncover much about the life of a 96 year old man, so this is only a snippet of his journey here on earth.
Manuel, my apa, was born just after the Mexican Revolution (The Mexican Revolution! Pancho Villa?! Wow! I was super intrigued to know that his grandfather and father had been in and around the fringes of that dangerous era.) The Revolution had brought government changes and economic changes for some, but in the end, El Pobre remained poor and struggling. In those days Mexico was bursting with riches in precious metals; gold and silver and he always said “Los Americanos supieron como sacarlo” because the Americans had the money and knowledge to invest in those gold mines. In the Central Mexican hills and valleys of Jalisco through the quick response and hustle of the Americans, a mining town was birthed; El Mineral del Amparo. (My dad always said “los gringos”, I discovered that it was the description of all the whites; European and Americanwho lived and worked in the town). He would share his stories with me during our visits and when he splashed history facts I always went home to research them. One day, as he began to tell me another story, I mentioned how impressed I was about his knowledge of history, I thought I was being generous by telling him that his facts were right, according to Google. With a twinkle in his eye and not a little indignation, he laughed and said “You’re double checking my facts on my history?” Yikes!)
My grandfather brought his new wife to El Amparo and here they started their life together, The Mining Company was his way of surviving outside of working in an hacienda. My dad was the first of nine children. (Since most Mexican families were this large, it’s not something to wow over,) As I heard some stories, I have been amazed at the resilience of man. My abuelo worked hard in the mines and my abuela was very resourceful helping ends meet in the home. Tortillas and frijoles, essentials in every Mexican home.
El Amparo
Dad shared many stories and descriptions of his childhood in this little mining town. Here it is hidden in the valleys, obscure, yet not without culture. He told me of the cinemas and theatres, the large mercado, the mill for grinding maiz, Don Lucios ice cream shop and, the taxi driver (really, it sounded more like Uber, before Uber :D) See the town had to be outfitted for the Americans that lived there and the working Mexicans mostly enjoyed it from afar, but every once in a while with a centavo or two my dad would go right smack in the middle of the town square and partake. There in the center of it all, the boys would enjoy a game of canicas, a time to gamble their marbles. Whenever he described it, it was always with a bit of pride that he too had experienced the rich culture of society; he went to the cinema a time or two and he saw the theatre from afar.
Wandering
My Dad wanted to see more of the world. He visited his grandfather who ran a huerta and learned about planting and harvesting. For a season he wandered trying to find his place in the world, picking up various farming skills along the way. Then, he heard the call for el Norte and responded immediately. Baja California was the bridge that brought him into Los Estados Unidos de America.
Familia
Dad went back home to Jalisco and got married, had two boys and went back to Baja, (Wow! What happened to the love story right? That’s for another post) where he spent a few years living in Mexicali and working across the border. It was probably a good transition time for mom, besides, she was busy having babies! During this time their family grew from four to eight (They were a fruitful couple, and they weren’t done because two more would come, pero, on the other side :D)
Settling Down
He landed in the Imperial Valley and stayed for the next seventy years! He connected with men, patrones that gave him learning opportunities. He learned about agriculture and intricate details of the irrigation system for watering the fields and he also learned about horses and machinery. He earned his way most of his life this way. He worked for the city of Calipatria, he was a night watchman for a cattle company, he had lots of work experience. (You can imagine my reaction when the young man trying to get details on his death certificate said can we write that he was a “farm hand”. All that wealth of experience reduced to that?!) My dad’s favorite experiences were with horses and sheep. One of those patrones hired him to herd sheep in the mountains of Utah. Although it was a lonely job, he loved the whole vaquero swag. His companion in those months out in the cold Sierra mountains was a sheep dog named Cazam. He had already started sporting the cowboy hat and Levi jeans but this season seemed to legitimize his stilo and honestly, it suited him well, my apa was a handsome fellow.
One beautiful sunny San Diego afternoon, I took Dad out to get his vitamin D; sunshine and fresh air. My apa is 96 years old and suffers from dementia and needs full time care. This day he was enjoying the birds and the garden. Right there, in the midst of the birds and the butterflies, all of a sudden, it hit me that I knew nothing about my father’s tamal experiences!
(Ya se, Ya se! I know you’re wondering why tamales are so important. Well because, tamales have become quite relevant to me lately as I’ve discovered “purchasing tamales” I feel your SMH disbelief, for this Mexican American girl, but I’ve become acquainted with Texas Lone Star Tamales, and I’ve tasted and enjoyed the luxury of eating delicious tamales that I didn’t labor over.)
I had to know something about mi apas tamal experiences. How was that possible? Maiz, masa, tortillas, these were an important part of my dad’s daily life. I’m sure there had to be a tamal story in all those memories.
!Traigan los tamales!
I threw the tamal conversation out, pushing dad to unwrap those memories.
“Apa do you like tamales? Did your mother; mi abuela Rosario, make them?”
Of course, I knew she had to make tamales, I felt silly to even ask.
Dad drew his eyes away from the chirping birds to answer the obvious.
“Yes I do, and she did.”
He turned his head back to the singing of the birds, I could tell tamales didn’t start up the engine of his memory train, he needed another boost.
“Apa, what was it like?”
He looked at me like I was from Mars. Didn’t little boys or young men pay attention to the details of making tamales? (Probably not) Weren‘t tamales a big deal in his world? Of course they were! Maiz was an essential necessity for survival still, 1930s in Mexico was exceptionally difficult for raising a large family. (Maybe he just forgot the conversation?)
“You know, what was it like when your mom made tamales? Did you help?”
“I don’t really know. I remember she was busy. When she made them, she was up and down, kind of everywhere. Look! Those look like crows, chattering away, busy trying to get their meal. Do you hear them?”
Now what? That was it? If that was the whole tamal story it was pretty bland. What exactly went with all of the busyness he saw during tamal making? Where were all the details? I kept envisioning my own memories, my mother leaning over the olla filled with masa, a huge pot that she was almost too short to stand over. Stirring and kneading as she prepared it. Did the smell of cooking meats fill his mother’s cooking area?
Tamales Blancos
“Mmmm, what kind of tamales did she make?”
Dad stared at the birds with regret, sad as he remembered his ama.
“Pork. Well, I don’t really know, maybe chicken, yes there had to be chicken. Definitely she made pork though.”
Now we both listened to the singing of the birds getting lost in those tamal moments.
“You’re probably right, but maybe she made chicken tamales like my mom did. Which ones did you like best?”
Now, he seemed to be rebooting those long term memories, evoking those images of his mother making and serving tamales.
Tamales Blancos (Does that mean gringo tamales?)
“ Well, I’m sure they were all very good. But the ones I remember clearly are those tamales blancos for sure.
Yes! I struck gold! Oooh, my abuela had her own special tamales.
“Oh yea? White tamales. They didn’t have any kind of chile sauce huh?
My father’s usually serious face lit up with a smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.
“That’s right. No sauce. No meat. Just the masa, (Wow! What would those “masa to filling” ratio police say to that?!) kneaded and prepared with a perfect amount of salt!”
What?! These were mi abuelas special tamales? These are the ones he remembered most?
“White tamales; plain salted masa wrapped in a corn husk. Why did she do that?”
The smile remained on his face as he explained.
“Those were the ones mi ama made for us kids, a lot of mouths to feed.”
With nine children to feed and wanting to be hospitable to her vecinos she had to stretch the wealth, Ah! my abuelas tamales blancos, werea practical meal that kept everyone fed.
“ Did you like them?”
Dad looked around and lowered his voice.
“Not really, but I made the most of it. After all, that was what was offered. She would have us line up to get our meal; in this case our tamal, and we’d go off to eat it”
I was kind of feeling sorry for him, imagining that I probably wouldn’t have eaten them.
“Doesn’t sound too exciting to eat a cooked ball of masa.”
“She served them with coffee. (There it is again, coffee for the kids, yikes!) It was the only way I could get it down.”
“Wow dad! So you never had the meat tamales she made?”
Dad’s eyes sparked with mischief and his eyebrows danced as he remembered those tamales.
“I did. A la desquidada, on the sly, when she wasn’t looking I’d snatch a meat one. It was easy since there were eight other kids distracting her for a tamal. Those were the good tamales. Si, they were pork and I didn’t need coffee.”
Learning To Cook With Your Mexican Mama, Or With Your Mexican-American Mama
Since Christmas time is a wonderful time of different holiday dishes and traditions, I thought it would be a good time to tell you about my learning to cook “journey”. (Anyone outside of the Mexican-American circle would call it a roller coaster!)
I’ve been cooking since I was barely a teenager. (As a young roommate I never shared the ‘wealth’ of my knowledge with my roomies, since I believed knowing how to cook meant following recipes) I cannot say I love cooking, especially the way I was inducted into the kitchen, but my ego is strutting; bien culeca when someone says “Oooh are those Rosies enchi’s?”.
It all started when I was almost fourteen years old, the summer before high school, when my whole life would turn upside down. My older siblings were all going off to work with mom in the grapevines of Coachella Valley, but I was not old enough to get a work permit. However, I was old enough to cook all by myself in the hot kitchen and so began my culinary journey.
Cooking class in my Mexican mother’s home was very informal. (I just felt my daughter roll her eyes at the obvious truth) Chores done and laundry continual, Mom would pull out some meat and say,
“When this defrosts, go ahead and cook it and serve it with frijoles de la ollatoday. No need to refry the beans today and don’t forget to make the tortillas first, they’ll stay warm”
“What?! Ok, Wait, what do I do with the meat?”
Without even looking back at me, she’d say,
“Con cebollita picada y pimienta. Ah, y un poco de sal. No se te pase!”
“That’s it? Some diced onion, pepper and salt? How do I know if I have enough salt or too much in it?”
She’d put down the laundry basket, look at me and say,
“You have to taste it Rosalba. If you need to add a little something, check the fridge, maybe some diced jalapeno, or garlic. There’s comino in the cupboard.”
She’d go right back to the endless laundry.
“Dad’s gonna be here just after noon, so be ready to serve”
That was the lesson. After staring at the meat, which was seeping blood, I wondered how I was going to create something delicious like Mom always did. I had no choice but to go for it and cook.
I cut the meat into small bites, I could not get all the fat out and that worried me. Still, I seasoned it with a dash of pepper, salt, and a sprinkle of cumin. Then, I just tossed it all into the pan with diced onions. That fat that I struggled to cut off, simmered and blended with the onion. As it continued to cook down it blended with the meat juices and created a gravy. It looked tasty, hmmm. I added a dash more salt, and let it simmer.
Mom came by and stirred the simmering pan, tasted, and added a dash more pepper and cumin. She lifted the towel my warm flour tortillas rested in, (I forgot to mention that making dough for tortillas had perhaps been my first lesson in the kitchen, a constant practice, since in our home we had fresh flour tortillas everyday) she covered them again and keeping a straight face she walked toward the door where the laundry waited.
“You’ll definitely have to practice rolling out your tortillas, round is the shape we’re aiming for.”
Dad came in, washed his hands and sat down to be served. I held my breath as I brought his plate to him. He uncovered the tortillas, lifted it up high and smirked.
“This looks like the seat of your bicycle” (rolling tortillas was not my constant practice a whole different struggle)
He rolled it and bit into it and took a fork full of meat and beans to his mouth. He ate everything on his plate, then took the last bicycle shaped tortilla and cleanup the gravy, and spoke.
“That was good. Thank you”
After that, I felt like I was a culinary graduate! (after all my apa had just approved me, every daughter’s dream) Now, I could conquer any belly, taste bud or picky person. Of course, I quickly realized that for basic training in my amas kitchen, the first lesson was that it was not as scary or difficult as it seemed, and it was nowhere near impossible. I would have to watch very carefully as she taught me to make the other Mexican essentials of her kitchen, the refried beans, the Mexican rice, the salsas, the sauces for the meats and on and on.
(My daughter in-law also says that she has to keep a really keen eye on my hands as I work in the kitchen because all of a sudden, “Le voy a echar un poquito de este” But I neglect to tell her what the “este” is beforehand or how much of it I added, making her learning experience much like mine)
Although cooking is not my favorite thing to do, I truly enjoy when others enjoy my cooking, then I see its value and love it.
Mexican-American Girl 