by Lydia Gil
After math homework, I put on some of my dance music and start to dance. I practice a few moves; whichever ones come to mind. But after a while I forget about them and my feet begin to improvise. I can feel the vibrations of the trumpets in the bottoms of my feet, as if they were tickling them, making them move. Grandma used to say that I’d inherited that rhythm from her people. Just like my wavy hair and the coffee color of my skin. My teacher agrees. She says that no other student dances to tropical jazz the way I do.
“It’s in your blood, Celeste,” my teacher used to say. “Let it out!”
And that’s when I’d let go and start dancing like a hurricane, taking down everything along my path … But I no longer go to dance class. There’s not enough money.
I fling myself onto a chair, exhausted, but the break doesn’t last very long. Through the window I can see that the flag on top of the mailbox is no longer sticking up, so I run to grab the mail. In between bills and catalogs, I spot an envelope … with Grandma’s handwriting!
My Dearest Celeste,
I hope that the cangrejitos you made came out delicious. Did your mami like them? She has loved them ever since she was a little girl … I never taught her how to make them, even though she always asked me to, because I was terrified she’d burn herself. Or that she’d love to cook so much she’d quit school. I wanted her to have a career, because I never had that option. In the end, I don’t know if what I did was right or wrong. But then, when you asked me to teach you how to cook, it occurred to me that if I didn’t, all the flavors of our history would be lost … My only regret is that this cursed illness didn’t give me enough time. But at least you know the essentials: be patient and follow the recipe with measurements so that it comes out just as good, every single time. Soon you’ll know when it’s time to add your personal touch to these dishes. In the meantime, here is the recipe for congrí, so that you will remember me.
I love you always,
Your grandma Rosa
Congrí was our weekend fare. Grandma would make a bean soup sometime during the week and would use whatever was leftover for the congrí. And if there wasn’t any left, then she’d use canned beans. Either way, it always came out delicious. She used to say that during colonial times, Haitian slaves had taken the congrí to Cuba, to the province of Oriente where my family was from. In their language, the slaves would call the beans “kongo” and the rice “riz” and that’s where the word “congrí” came from.
I read through the recipe and realize that, by some miracle, we have all the ingredients we need! I immediately begin to cook so that I can surprise Mami when she gets home.
Congrí
3 tablespoons of oil, separately
3 garlic cloves, smashed
1 onion, chopped in small pieces
1 green pepper, chopped in small pieces
1 teaspoon of oregano
½ teaspoon of ground cumin
½ cup of tomato sauce
2 cups of raw white rice (long grain)
1 (15 ounce) can of small red beans
2 teaspoons of salt
1 bay leaf
• Heat up two tablespoons of oil in a pot at medium-high heat and add the smashed garlic. Fry until it’s golden brown, remove it, and fry the rice in the same oil. Stir for 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and set it aside.
• In a separate pan, heat up the remaining tablespoon of oil at medium-high heat and sauté the chopped onion. After a couple of minutes, add the pepper, oregano and cumin. When the onion begins to get a bit of color, add the tomato sauce. Stir for 2 minutes and set aside.
• Remove the liquid from the can of beans, making sure to keep it in a separate bowl, and add enough water to make four cups.
• Combine the tomato sauce mix into the pot of rice, add the beans and the four cups of cooking liquid, along with the salt and bay leaf. Cook at a medium-high temperature until it begins to boil, stirring occasionally so that it doesn’t stick to the bottom. Once it reaches a boil, cover the pot and turn the temperature to low.
• Let the mixture simmer for approximately 20 to 25 minutes, or until the rice is fully cooked. Add salt and pepper to taste.
5
MARIQUITAS
The congrí was marvelous. Mami and Lisa licked their fingers while they said how good it turned out. The only thing that felt strange was that Mami didn’t ask me how I’d done it. I think she suspects that it was Grandma’s recipe because it tasted almost exactly like the congrí she used to make. But Mami didn’t say a word. Now that I think about it, she doesn’t talk about Grandma at all! It’s as if Grandma was still sitting in her room watching the novela. Or, even worse, as if she’d never even been here with us. Lisa talks about Grandma, but whenever she does, Mami changes the subject.
Yesterday I went to the supermarket with Doña Esperanza because Mami started working on Saturdays too. She says that without Grandma’s social security check we no longer have enough to pay the bills. How I wish she didn’t have to work so much!
“What do you need, m’ija?” asks Doña Esperanza.
“Rice, beans, bread,” I say, trying to remember the few dishes that I know how to prepare. “And green plantains.”
“What about chicken? Or meat?” she asks. “Or has that Lisa turned you into vegetarians?”
“Lisa is not a vegetarian,” I correct her. “She eats chicken.”
“Well, I think a good piece of meat would do her some good,” she says. “That woman is so thin that if a strong wind hit her, she’d end up miles away.”
“I don’t know how to cook anything with meat yet,” I tell her.
“You’ll get there,” she says, while she puts some packs of meat into the cart.
Unlike my mom, Doña Esperanza loves to talk about Grandma. She told me that after Grandma moved here, she was the first person that my grandma met. Since Doña Esperanza is Puerto Rican, she felt the same sense of nostalgia for her island as Grandma did for hers. That’s how they shaped their friendship; talking about the food and people that they’d left behind. And since they were neighbors, they’d talk all the time. They’d sit down on the front stoop, talking about the neighborhood, the novela, the news—everything except sad topics. At least they never seemed sad to me.
“I’m learning to fix Grandma’s recipes,” I tell Doña Esperanza.
“¡Qué bueno!” she says. “You know, your grandma promised she’d teach me how to make her famous ropa vieja. But, between one thing and the next, she got sick, and we never got around to it.”
“Well, if she sends me the recipe, I’ll share it with you, Doña Esperanza,” I tell her.
I stare at her to see if she’d look at me funny.
“Thank you, nena,” she responds. “I’d love that.”
I couldn’t understand why all the adults seemed to think it was perfectly normal that Grandma was sending me letters from the beyond, but my friends, who spent their days reading books about fairies and wizards, were convinced that I’d completely lost my mind. It didn’t make any sense.
When we get home I ask Doña Esperanza to teach me how to make fried plantains, because on her island this is also a popular dish.
“¡Amarillos” she says, “of course!”
At home we always had plantains. Green, yellow and black. One time, Karen and Silvia were at the house and Grandma took out a ripe plantain. Karen thought that it was spoiled and if she ate it she’d get sick. The dummy didn’t say anything until Silvia was about to eat one of the fried plantains on the table. Karen grabbed at her hand very hard, so she couldn’t eat it, but Silvia had already taken a bite. She nearly choked when Karen told her that it was a black banana and it would make her sick! When I translated to grandma what was going on, she laughed so hard she had to leave the kitchen to catch her breath. When she returned, she asked me to translate for her:
“When plantains are fried green, they turn crunchy and are eaten with salt,” she said. “Like mariquitas—which happens to mean �
�ladybugs’ —and the tostones, that are just like mariquitas, but bigger. When plantains go from yellow to black, it’s because they are very ripe. That means they will be very sweet when you fry them.”
“Celeste, you’re going to kill me,” Karen said. “First you serve me a black plantain and then you tell me that the green ones are filled with ladybugs!”
Grandma thought the whole thing was hilarious. After having a nice laugh, she took out a green plantain and sliced it into little rounds. She pointed to the plantain’s little black specks.
“Ma-ri-qui-ta,” she said, slowly.
Karen and Silvia repeated after her.
“Ladybug,” Silvia told Grandma.
And Grandma repeated, slowly: “Lei-di-bog.”
The memory makes me change my mind, and I ask Doña Esperanza to make mariquitas instead. Even though I already know how to prepare them, Mami doesn’t let me fry things by myself, because she’s afraid the oil will splatter and I will get burned. Between the two of us, we cut the plantains into thin slices, and Doña Esperanza fries them. I think about my friends talking to Grandma and get a little sad. But Monday will be another day.
Mariquitas (Plantain Chips)
1 green plantain
Salt and pepper
Frying oil
• Heat up enough oil for a deep fryer. If using a frying pan, the oil should be about 1-inch deep. (Ask an adult to help you with this!)
• Cut off the tips of the plantain and then cut it in half, so it’s easier to peel.
• Peel the plantain and slice it into thin rounds, using the slicer side of a box grater.
• Fry the mariquitas until they are golden on both sides. Remove them from the oil and let them drain on paper towels.
• Season with salt and pepper, and serve immediately.
6
ROPA VIEJA
On Monday, Mami and I wake up tired, as if the weekend never happened. We sit at the table to have breakfast—a bowl of cereal, café con leche and toast. Mami drinks her coffee slowly and tells me about her other job, the one she works on Saturdays.
“It’s not bad,” she says. “It’s a fun group and we pass the time talking while we stuff letters into envelopes. It’s easy and time goes by fast.”
“Ay, Mami, I wish you didn’t have to work so much!” I tell her.
“It’s not forever, cielo,” she says. “Just for a few more months so I can catch up on the bills. And so you can go back to dance class.”
“I don’t need classes, Mami,” I say. “I’d rather be here with you.”
“Patience, honey,” she says in a tone that reminds me of Grandma. “Everything comes, and everything goes.”
I tell my mom about a dream I had where a tiny tornado picked me up and lifted me inches off the ground.
“I was spinning around and around,” I tell her. “Like I was dancing to a rhythm that gets faster and faster until it’s out of control. Then, all of a sudden, the wind stopped blowing and, boom! I fell to the floor like a ripe mango … I couldn’t get up and I started screaming, but nobody came. And then I woke up.”
“Cielo,” she says tenderly. “I’m always near you.”
“I know.”
When I get to school, I see Karen and Silvia down the hallway. From afar, they look like a perfect ten: tall and skinny Karen and Silvia, short and chubby. They say hi to me as if nothing had happened. Well, maybe nothing did happen.
“What did you do this weekend?” Karen asks.
“Cook, go to the supermarket and wash a never-ending pile of dishes,” I tell them.
All of a sudden, I realize I sound like an old lady. “And I also watched a couple of shows on TV,” I add.
“And you didn’t go to the studio?” Silvia asks.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think I’m going to dance anymore. I don’t really like it that much.”
They both look at me, shocked. I try to seem indifferent so that they won’t notice that I’m lying. The truth is, I’ve loved to dance ever since I was born. They both know this because I can never wait in line without dancing. And if there’s music playing, something inside me moves, even when I don’t want it to.
“What about you?” I say, changing the subject. “What did you do?”
“I spent the weekend reading one of the Secret Society books,” Karen says. “It was so good I even skipped dinner … I forgot to eat!”
“That never happens to me,” Silvia says, rubbing her round stomach. “Speaking of food, Celeste, did you bring anything good today … like cangrejitos?”
“Not today, sorry,” I tell her. “Grandma hasn’t written to me in the past few days, so I don’t know what to make.”
Silvia and Karen give each other a look.
“Celeste, you worry me,” Silvia says. “You have to accept that your grandma died, forever … ”
I feel a burst of anger inside of me and I know that I’m not in control of what I’m about to say.
“Look, Silvia, I’ve always worried about your big fat belly and the amount of candy that you eat every day, but I never tell you what to do. So do me a favor, and leave me alone!”
I immediately feel horrible about saying that. But I’m so sick of her comments. What does she know about what’s happening to me?
The rest of the day goes by in a fog. Between the neighbor’s dogs that won’t stop barking and my weird dreams, I haven’t been sleeping very well. Now Silvia and Karen are in the corner whispering; probably talking about me. And to make things worse, Amanda is coming my way with a toothy smile plastered on her face.
“Celeste, you’ve missed the last three dance classes,” she says, running her fingers through her long blond hair. “One more and you won’t be dancing in the recital.”
“I’m not going to dance anymore,” I tell her. “So don’t worry, you no longer have any competition.”
“Competition? Seriously? You think you’re my competition?” she says. “Oh, Celeste, you are so wrong.”
“Get lost, Amanda,” I tell her, trying to hide the fury in my voice.
“No, Celeste, you’re the one that has to go,” she tells me. “Go back to your country!”
I’m so mad I don’t even know how to respond. I shove her and she pretends to fall to the floor and cry. I know she’s faking it. But if by chance I really hurt her, that’s even better.
I’m surprised to see that Lisa has come to pick me up. At least I can see one smiling face on this awful day. I run to greet her and she gives me a hug that nearly knocks me to the ground.
“Hey, beautiful,” she says. “How was your day?”
“Don’t ask,” I tell her.
“Well, let’s talk about something happy … What did you cook last night?”
“Chicken with mariquitas and a salad,” I tell her. “Doña Esperanza showed me how to season the chicken and Mami helped with the frying.”
“How yummy!” she says. “Something told me I should’ve stopped by last night … ”
“It wasn’t anything special,” I tell her. “Besides, we’ve been eating so much chicken lately, that I think we’re going to start laying eggs.”
“I’m sure your grandma will teach you how to make some new dishes soon,” she says. “Look at how much you’ve learned already!”
My mouth drops open. How does she know? I think for a minute that maybe she’s the one writing the letters … But it can’t be. I’m sure they’re in Grandma’s handwriting.
“I believe in those things, Celeste,” she says, sensing my surprise. “When people die, there’s a part of them that stays here, with us … And they continue to talk to us and to teach us things.”
I listen. But I’m not sure what to think.
I can hear the barking all the way from around the corner. I never really know if the neighbor’s dogs are saying hi or warning me not to get too close. I look at them from a distance, but Lisa sticks her hand through the fence and pets them. They immediately calm down, as if by magi
c, and they lick her hands. Just in case, I stick my hands in my pockets. They are safe there.
When I get home I see that the mail has been delivered. In between the bills and advertisements there is a single white envelope, handwritten and without a return address. I don’t have to open it to know it’s from Grandma!
My Dear Celeste,
I’m a bit tired, but I know that soon I’ll get the chance to rest. I don’t want to say goodbye without first letting you know that you and your mother have made me so very happy. Your mother, so loyal and caring to me and so dedicated to you … Tell her I’m so proud of her. And of you, too, my beloved granddaughter. Of your good grades, your dedication to dancing, your interest in the stories of the past and, above all, your caring heart.
How I’d like to be there to help you prepare these recipes! But I know you can do it. And I also know that if you get stuck, you will know to ask for help. Never be afraid to ask for help! Most people like to help. Remember that, always.
Here is my recipe for ropa vieja, the dish you love so much. You will see how easy it is to make. (And don’t be scared of the pressure cooker, it’s not going to explode!)
Your grandma that loves you,
Rosa
Grandma’s letter leaves me feeling a bit sad. I wonder if this will be the last I receive. But I pull myself together and call Doña Esperanza to give her the news. After all, she’s been waiting for this recipe for years.
“I got it!” I tell her. “I finally got it!”
“What did you get?” she asks, confused.
“Grandma’s recipe,” I say, “to make ropa vieja!”
“I’ll be right over,” she says and hangs up the phone.
