Comiendo de Cantina

My Big Fat Cuban family around the table.

Yesterday I made enough Arroz con Pollo to feed an army. Which is to say, to feed my family. =D

Everyone who ate, had seconds. Okay, maybe even thirds.  Not because they were hungry, but because the food tasted so great. And I made sooo much, I even had leftovers.

My mom asked if they could take some home.

Of course. Not a problem. Oops. No plastic containers.

What to do?

Enter the Cuban-style bento box.

(I hadn't noticed until I filled it, but our meal was totally monochromatic. How accidentally and artistically cool!)

Cuban "bento" or cantina.

So I went old school and filled the thing up much to my uncle's delight.

Back in Cuba and more recently in Miami, this contraption had a name and function. We call it a cantina. Derived from a time, back in the day, when you could get meals delivered to your house every day from the local cantina on a kind of subscription basis.  We called it comiendo de cantina, and eventually the name cantina was used to describe the metal bento box (like this one) that the food came in. 

Cuban "bento" or cantina.

Imagine that! Hot Cuban food delivered to your home EVERY DAY right at dinner time! 

Oh wait.... That happens here every day....

- La Cantina de Marta! (I may need to get a sign for the kitchen.)

Mad (Cuban) Mom in a Minivan

When I tell people that I homeschool my kids, they seem to be under the (very!) mistaken impression that it means that I have them chained to desks all day and they don't see another soul for hours, days and weeks. Who started this ridiculous myth?

In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Right now, as I write this, Adam has a group of Jonathan and Lucy's friends, Jr. High and High School homeschool kids and he's teaching them improvisation games. This occurs here every Friday afternoon.

If we're not here, we're driving.
Boy, are we driving!!

To racquetball.
To tap.
To drama.
To tennis.
To writing class.
To the Y.
To pick up friends.
To the grocery store.
To San Diego.
To Laguna Beach.
To Los Angeles.
To the science center.
To a museum.
To the zoo.
To the theater.
To the local Mexican market.
To the train station.

Just like every other mom with kids involved in different activities.

Well, okay. On the outside we look like any other family in South Orange County.

But in my minivan, while driving to all our different activities, we're listening to Willy Chirino. =D

La Misma Lengua

Que bolá?
It's Amy, AGAIN.  But my new Cuban nickname is Kikita.  (more on that another day)

Anyway, my uncle is in town.  Ok, he's actually my mom's uncle which makes him my tio abuelo, but we call him Tio Timbiriche. (like I said, more on nicknames another day)

So his first night in town, Luza (my abuela) has made congri as part of the welcome feast for Tio Timbiriche and my aunt made empanadas. Everything was delicious. Obviously, my first question to this tio abuelo that I haven’t seen in years is, “Quien es San Apapusio?” ;-)

And so it begins. I thought I spoke Spanish well and could hold my own with Cubans. I thought wrong.

Day 1 and I’m already lost and asking for all kinds of explanations.

My abuela starts talking about how she cooks “con ojo de buen cubero.”

I won’t even tell you what I thought I heard her say . . .

But I will tell you that I’d never heard her say it before. So I ask what it means. And they explain it to me.

The conversation turns from cooking to baldness. (no, I have no idea how it happened) We start discussing who in the family is more prone to baldness. Random, I know. My cousin starts talking about genetics (in English because it’s easier for her). As it turns out, baldness is genetic.

While she and I are deeply involved in genetics, the Spanish-speakers have moved on and someone says something about “la familia de Roque Pilon y Perendenge.”

Excuse me? Who are these people? Are we related?

These questions get peals of laughter from the older crowd. And they tell me to give up asking questions. I try to explain to them that I don’t even care where it came from anymore . . . I just need to know when would be a good time to use it. I’d hate to go and try to my practice my new Cuban phrases on my two Cuban friends and mess up something as fun to say as “la familia de Roque, Pilon, y Perendenge.”

Yes, I admit it. I thought it was three people, not one guy with three names.

I’m finally starting to understand all the new things I’ve learned today when my cousin (who missed most of the Spanish conversation) sticks out her tongue and says, “You know what else is genetic?”

 

So it starts. The tongue twisting.

And finally we have a "lengua" we all understand. ;-)

Excuse me, Mr. Google?

Hello, mi gente!  It's Amy again.

I'm having issues.  I need help.

The other day, I was talking with my Mom and I was messing with her a bit when out-of-the-blue and for the first time in my life she exclaimed, "San Apapusio, baja!"

Umm . . . what?? who??

Obviously, she was frustrated and asking for a particular Saint to come down . . . I understand that part, but most Saints are famous for something and that's why you call on them.

So, what is San Apapusio famous for?

Before admitting to her that I didn't know what she was talking about, I did what any modern-day Cubana would do.  I asked Mr. Google and guess what?  HE DOESN'T KNOW!!!!

El Señor Google left me hanging.  So I went to the next best source, Abuela.  But, you won't believe this, she said, "It's just something we say when someone is being difficult and we're frustrated.  I don't know why.  Ask Mr. Google."
Great.  This Mr. Google guy has only been here a couple days and already he's letting me down.

Not ready to admit defeat, I called my one Cuban friend who has only been here a couple years.  He started laughing at me and said he had no idea who it was.

Ay, caramba!

WHO IS THIS SAN APAPUSIO?!?!?

ANYONE? ANYONE?

(you get extra points if you can link him to Kevin Bacon)

Fairy Godparents? or Fairly Oddparents?

From left: My sister, Alina, who is my niece Helen's godmother, who is Alina's daughter, Kelley's godmother, who is Helen's daughter, Daisy's godmother.  Did you get all that?

Here's a fun Cuban Easter tradition we follow: 

I don't know who decided it, but it's engraved in stone. When you are appointed the high honor of being asked to be a godparent, you have 2 main jobs . One - To hold the child as they're being dunked or sprinkled or whatever the dedication ritual involves. You are agreeing to support that child and family in their desire to raise their kids in the faith. At the birth or baptism or christening of the child, we appoint godparents to support the parents in raising their children in a Godly way.  Two - You agree to remember the child every Easter (not exactly sure why) with a gift basket.  Okay, so really... it's someone to give your kid an Easter basket every year.

We Cubans (at least in this big, fat, Cuban family) take our Godparenting pretty seriously.  And the baskets get more and more elaborate every year.  I began wondering today if it was just in our family, or did other Cubans also name the godparents and their job was just to make sure the kid got a great Easter gift?

I was going to research it, but then I decided that really, I didn't care.

It's the way we've always done it.
It's the way we'll continue to do it.
Godmothers, Godchildren and Easter Baskets will continue to be part of our Great Cuban American Easter Tradition.
And we LIKE it that way.

I hope your Easter was full of surprises...  =D

I'm More Cuban Than I Thought!

Hi everyone, it’s Amy.

 I’m not sure if you know this or not, but my Mom and Dad divorced when I was 3 (which totally worked out because I have a really awesome Dad now!  ;-D)

Anyway, after the divorce, we (Mom, Adam, & I) moved in with Mom’s parents who lived in Anaheim.  Anaheim is still where many Orange County Cubans are. 

But back then, it was THE PLACE in the “Oh Si” for Cubans. There was and still is a large Latin Community in Anaheim.

My street was called Ken Way, which was a cul-de-sac.  My house was at the end of the cul-de-sac on the right side. It was in that house that all the great Noche Buenas happened.

There was the perfect tree for climbing in the big front yard. There was a “club house” in the back.

The back!

The back was big enough to play baseball with my cousins. It was lined with roses. There were giant trees . . . it was a GREAT backyard. (Both AWESOME and BIG.)

And inside! There was this super long hallway that led to all three bedrooms and the one bathroom. But if we shut all the doors, this long hallway was pitch black. So whenever my cousins would come over, we would make the hallway really dark and play a game we called “Darky-darky.” (Original, I know.)

At night, my abuelo would call me into his room and tell me a bedtime story. It was in that house that I remember my first café con leche. I remember watching the novela “Pobre Diabla” with my abuela. (Why she let me watch it, I’m not sure . . .)

 I have so many memories in and of that house. I could talk about it for hours. Days even.
Plus, the neighbors all adored me. I even went to school with a girl who lived across the street. 

Our school was just a few blocks away (or so it seemed to my young eyes). I went to kindergarten there and had the same teacher my much older cousin had had. Mrs. Axel. I loved it there. I went to first grade there. I was THE. MOST. POPULAR. GIRL. IN. SCHOOL.

No really. I knew everyone. I liked everyone. Everyone knew me. Everyone loved me. (Mom says I was also the only blond at that school, but that’s not important right now. ;-D)

There was even a boy who adored me and I adored him right back. His name was Andy Garcia. I swear. What are the odds? 

When I started second grade, Mom told me we were moving to Mission Viejo. My teacher invited me to be part of a special book club of advanced readers, but I had to decline because I was moving.

And by mid-October . . . I was in a new school and I didn’t know anyone. Sure, I made a couple of friends, but there were cliques at this school.
I was an outsider.
And no-one in this new town spoke Spanish. (which is lame because it had a Spanish name “Mission Viejo”)

And I’m not sure if I’ve ever quite recovered from it.

 Last week I was driving through Anaheim (ironically, I feel “at home” there) and found myself in my old neighborhood. I found my old house. It was different. Someone had taken out the great climbing tree and added a bedroom. It was a different color. There were other people living in it. But it was still my house.

I know it’s childish, but I have this secret dream that one day “when I grow up” I’m going to buy that house and move back.

My 97 year old Tio Abuelo talks about buying “una finca en Cuba” and moving back too.

Sometimes people will ask me about Cuba and say, “How can you miss a place you’ve never been? How can you identify with your Cuban side so much?”

Sometimes I’ve wondered how I can feel so strongly like I’m in exile too . . . How is it that I can weep as if I lost my childhood home in an instant and have never been able to go back . . . As if I had to acclimate to a new world, but desperately miss my old one?

 Oh wait . . .

. . . maybe I’m more Cuban than I thought.

Standing room only

There were about two hundred people at my brother-in-law's memorial service. I've never seen a chapel so packed out for a funeral. All of them came to the reception afterwards.
I took this photo after about half had already left.
Yes, that's Shawn Green, the baseball player, in the middle of the room. 
Who didn't Rafael know??
More importantly, who didn't know and love him?
It's quite a testament to a man's life when so many people show up to pay their respects at the end of it.
He was the life of every party and the very Cuban heart of our family.

This is why we'll all miss him so much:

This is just the first 4 minute segment of a fifteen-minute tribute video beautifully cut together by my talented Amy.
The song: *Lo Que Esta Pa Ti (Nadie te lo quita) by Willy Chirino 
(*Loosely translated - "What's meant for you, no one can take away")

Karen: You'll never get this many people to come to my funeral.
Michael: Oh, Karen, I'll come. And . . . you know . . . I'll bring a date.
                                                                                                   ~ from The Big Chill

Designer Genes

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you're probably wondering where my mom has been. 
She's been in Miami.
For the last MONTH.
Visiting her big brother.
Did I mention that she just turned 94?
Her big brother, my uncle Fernando, is 97 (and lives alone, BTW).

WHAT ARE THESE PEOPLE MADE OF?? (and did I get any of those genes?)

I haven't talked to her much because she's been going from party to party. Seriously. She's dragging out her birthday celebrations and letting everyone fuss over her and make dinners and cakes. She's been busy.

She calls.
From the Palacio de los Jugos.
On a cell phone.

She can't really talk, she just wanted to know if I thought it would be okay if she brought home some cod. (Cod?? in a suitcase?? We live in California. We can get cod! I tell her I don't think that's a good idea . . . she's doing it anyway. SIGH =D)

She had to go.
She had another party at Hildi and Joaquin's. (this picture is from them - thank you!)

"Muchos besos!" She says this in an air-kiss-gotta-go-love-you-no-time-to-talk way.

I'm left holding the phone, shaking my head, and marveling at this amazing person who just happens to be my mother. 

I'll be picking her up at the airport in a few hours and then we'll head back to her house where the rest of the family will be waiting to have . . . (what else?) another party. (sheesh) ;-)

Life finds a way

We have been very lucky in my big, fat, Cuban family.  We always seem to equalize when we lose someone. What I mean by that is that when there has been divorce or death, it is inevitably followed by a wedding or a birth.

"God gives. God takes. God's name be ever blessed."
                                            ~ Job 1:21 (The Message)

I was contemplating this while in the midst of the preparations for my brother-in-law's memorial.
It was then that I receive a text from my nephew, Michael, who lives in South Miami Beach.

I'm engaged.

CONGRATULATIONS.

Her name is Kimberly.

BEAUTIFUL.

She fits right in. You'll love her.

CAN'T WAIT.

She's Cuban.

PERFECT!!

He sent the following picture:
Michael's in love.
With a Cuban girl.
And is getting married. (which means we get to go to a wedding in Miami sometime soon, but that's not important right now.)
How adorable is this??

Congratulations, Michael and Kimberly!

Kimberly Verdés. It has a nice ring to it, I think.
(Speaking of rings. . . pictures, please!! =D)

Welcome, Kimberly to our big, fat, Cuban family.
I'm sure you'll fit right in. If Michael loves you, I'm sure we will too.  ;-)

The sweet part

My brother, Rudy, and his beautiful wife, Carmen flew in from Texas yesterday - for the funeral. 

"I'm going to make arroz con pollo," Amy declared authoritatively. (She made enough arroz con pollo to feed the small army that is my big, fat, Cuban family, but that's not important right now.) 

First, Eric and I arrive with the kids. Rudy and I hug for a long time. Not saying what we're both obviously thinking. That we're so glad to see each other even under these difficult conditions. 

Then my niece shows up and three of my sisters arrive. We hold Ofelia, the widow, and let her cry in our familiar arms for a while. Her loss is our collective loss.

But there's all this great food on the table which gives us something to do other than stare at each other's red-rimmed eyes.

We start talking about the shock of Rafael's death, and eventually the conversation takes the inevitable turn to the wonderful stories we all have about him and soon we're laughing loud and hard.

None of us venture to even get up from the table. We don't want to miss a moment of this, because this is the sweet part.  The part where we're all siblings once again. Where we reminisce together about growing up with each other and we can laugh knowingly at my mom and dad's antics.  We remember and remind each other to tell our favorite stories.  We all know the punchline - we wait for it anyway and laugh in all the same places. Adam asks my brother about the midnight pancakes and is delighted to hear the story told once again. 

My kids listen spellbound. They miss half of the conversation as we flow easily from English to Spanish and then back. It is a fascinating familial/bilingual dance we're doing. They seem to naturally understand that this is where we all need to be right now.  That this is where we all find comfort.

Too soon we'll have the business of the funeral to attend to and we'll do this again on a much larger scale after the memorial service with all those who will come to pay respects.  But this familiar after-dinner scene we call sobremesa in Spanish is where the heart of my family is found. It is the Cuban custom of after-dinner conversation. No one jumps up to do dishes. Instead we linger, pulling the warmth around us like a blanket. We're reluctant for the magic to end, so we stay as long as possible. So many memories to share that were made in moments just like this.

On my way home I realized that I would never forget this night and that we had inadvertently done it again - we had made another sweet, sweet memory which we will one day recount at another sobremesa on another day.

Life goes on.