Happy Birthday to the bombshell aunt! November 11, 2009

Today has been so very busy for me.  I have been up and on the go since I woke up today at 9am.  It was a day off from school but it was not a day for rest.  In fact, I have been baking and getting things ready for today since yesterday evening when I made the chocolate ganache and Dorie’s Devil’s Food White-Out Cake… well, at least the cake portion of it.

This would be my blouse after all that chocolate.

Maybe I’m too used to having an apron on for class.

After making macaroni salad, sewing, making cupcakes, the frosting, assembling the cake and then going and making dinner, its understandable that I’m quite tired.  I hurt but it all came out beautifully!  

 

Devil's Food White-Out Cake w/ Chocolate Ganache & Cupcakes

Certain anatomically correct cakes notwithstanding, I like to think I can make some very lovely cakes.  I made 2-  8in layers and iced the inner layer and around the sides.  I made the edges a little raised so I have a little well to place the pool of chocolate ganache.  It was SO yummy.  There are no words to describe the yumminess!

 

A yummy slice with ice cream

 

 I just loved how the ganache would ooze down when the cake was sliced.

I used the leftover Icing from the cake but used my own vanilla cupcake recipe.  Since I love how light and fluffy the cake comes out, I will share the recipe with y’all!  

Yellow Cupcakes

(makes approximately 2 dozen cupcakes)

- 11 1/2 tablespoons butter

- 1 1/4 cup sugar

- 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

- 4 egg yolks

- 1 1/4 cup flour

- 1/2 + 1/8 teaspoon baking powder

- 3/4 cup milk

- 4 egg whites

- pinch of salt

1. Cream butter with sugar.
2. Separate eggs and whip whites with the pinch of salt until they form soft peaks.
3. Add yolks to the butter, blend in with vanilla.
4. Alternate additions of milk with the flour.
5. Fold in egg whites to the mixture. 
6. Fill cupcake molds to just 2/3 full.
7. Bake at 350 F for 20-25 min until tops are golden and the centers spring back to touch. 

Enjoy!

Calabaza Pela’ y Algo Mas: Part 5 August 18, 2009

I’ve been a little remiss when it comes to updating my blog lately.  But before I get to blathering about what has been going on in my life lately (which I promise to do next after this blog posting), I thought I’d continue with this writing series. 

This time I’m going to tell you about Mama Matea, my great grandmother (again, this is on my mother’s side)…

As I believe I’ve mentioned before, my grandparents ended up buying the property just at the base of the area that my great- grandfather owned.  Its like a little hill and it seems that everyone on my grandmother’s side has settled a house up along it.  Right after what used to be the store that my great-grandfather owned and ran, is another little house where Mama Matea used to live.  She passed away about 2 weeks before I turned 8.  I remember that clearly because I remember my mother telling me of her death and how I had to be understanding that I possibly might not be getting the usual cards and gifts for my birthday from my grandparents because of the recent death. 

I don’t know why that has stuck with me throughout the years, but it has.  One could say that for a time I was the great-grandchild closest to Mama Matea.  You see, I was born in NYC (in Flushing, Queens, to be exact) and when I was about a year or so old, my parents moved us back to PR (where we all lived until their separation and divorce when I was about 3).  My parents both worked, as did my grandmother and aunt, so Mama Matea was the one who took care of me. 

For the most part, I was far too young to remember this.  There are shadowy memories that come and go… Like being allowed to run about in my underwear in the backyard while splashing around the faucet she had back there and getting chastised for plucking all the blooms off her flowers and showering them all along the balcony.  But one of the most iconic things I remember about Mama Matea is actually a taste.  Its a little hard for me to explain… My mother says that whenever she would come to pick me up, she’d always have to bring my great-grandmother and I a loaf of fresh bread (pan sobao, for those who are wondering and know the difference) from the bakery.  Then Mama Matea would make some coffee, we both liked it very light and sweet.  She’d cool off my cup just enough with the milk and then we would sit and eat our bread by dunking it into the coffee.  This is something she loved doing and eating, and something I loved very much when I was a little girl.  And it’s that taste, of that very sweet and light coffee soaked bread that I always remember about Mama Matea. 

The interesting part is that I always remember Mama Matea to be very kind and gentle but I suppose that maybe was just with me.  My other cousins don’t quite remember her that way.  I was a delight to her because I started talking at an early age and would have rambling conversations with her.  She was a rather sharp sort of woman, one that did not deal with nonsense, loved to gossip and loved to tease people to no end. 

That reminds me of the iconic story that goes along with Mama Matea and her ingenuity… 

My grandmother grew up in very humble surroundings.  Food was kept on the table through the farming and growing that the family did for themselves.  The diet at that time was mostly the starchy sort of “vegetables” we know as viandas.  Meat wasn’t something often had and when it was, it was a special treat.  If a chicken was killed, it was meant to feed the entire family.  It was unheard of for anyone to visit and not stay for the meal, no matter how little of it there was to go around.  (That’s still very much a rule in PR culture and society, as my grandmother is notorious for always trying to feed anyone who walks through her front door) 

They tell me that one evening they had the special treat of having chicken for dinner.  Because it was so rare, my great-grandfather had set aside his piece of meat so that he could savor it last.  But as it so happened, company came over and Mama Matea would not hear of them staying for dinner.  Taking quick stock as to how she could rearrange the food so that there was enough for everyone to eat, she plucked that piece of chicken right off her husband’s plate saying “Oh dear! Look at this! I gave him this piece of chicken and I forgot how he doesn’t even like it!”  Then she proceeded to put that piece of chicken on the plate for their visitor without a second thought. 

My great-grandfather learned that if there was meat on his plate then it was the very first thing he ate so that such a thing would never happen to him again!  Its still a joke in our household, especially for my grandfather, as he is the one who eats the slowest… that he doesn’t want my grandmother to get any funny ideas and try to take stuff off his plate.  He’ll eat it when he’s good and ready and visitors be damned!

Calabaza Pela’ y Algo Mas: Part 4 July 21, 2009

I’m sorry that I didn’t get a Calabaza Pela’ up over the weekend.  I was busy and just couldn’t focus on writing; I have a lot of possible stories to share for this series, so sometimes it makes it hard for me to pick just one.  But then I was fired yesterday and now I have nothing but free time!  So while I figure out what to do with myself now during this period of unemployment, I shall try and delight y’all more with some writing on my blog.  So, as a special treat, I will include two stories this time around. 

The first I will tell is the bonus one.  As with each week I wonder which story to share, my mother has been helping me with memories and details.  This one is more “one liner” sort of funny rather than worthy of creating a recipe at the end.  Going back a step to the early days of my grandparents’ marriage:

My grandfather didn’t live up as deeply in the country as my grandmother did.  When he had met my grandmother, he  had already done a year of draft service for the US Army by serving in Korea.  He received a purple heart and he was even listed as dead when he disappeared during combat.  His family prayed the necessary novenas (novenas= 9 nights of rosary praying after a burial) at the time; something he has said ever since that, when he really dies, he will not need them prayed for him as they have already been done.  But he returned from the dead and had seen a little more of the world in the process.  My grandmother on the other hand kept close to home.  She worked the fields as the oldest girl and trips to town were reserved mostly for them men when they took the horses on down.  When she married my grandfather, she was living in town for the first time and learning a whole new role in life.  So when my grandfather took her out to a rather nice restaurant for the first time, it was a special treat.  It is usually customary for there to be a bowl of salad before the meal but my grandmother, having lived on a diet of viandas (a variety of rather starchy roots or “vegetables”) and the occasional meat, having salad was unheard of!  She took one look at that bowl and told my grandfather, in no uncertain terms, that she was not a goat to be eating such things. 

I gotta love my grandmother.  She kills me with the things she says!

Now we shall fast forward to the years after my last story; living in PR again with 3 kids.  While my grandfather worked in mechanics and body shop repairs, sort of working out of home, my grandmother was the one who actually held down the stable income.  She worked for many years late night shifts at the Atunera (tuna fish processing plant) scaling fish.  It was a tiring job several towns over.  She didn’t have a car and had to depend on rides or walking.  There was even the night where she took a ride with some policemen to make it back home.  Even though she would come home so late, she had the ritual of putting on some lipstick and kissing her three children.  In the morning, each child would always check themselves for the imprint of a kiss to know that she made it home alright. 

Therefore it fell to my grandfather to make sure the children ate something at night.  From what I can piece together of the stories told, he was not much of a cook.  The two staples of that period of time, if he was the one cooking, were hash browns and fried crackers.  The latter are a favorite of mine, so many years later. 

There are these large crackers called galletas de manteca.  They are very dense and very good just on their own.  But then you dip them into some lightly beaten egg batter and fry them up in a little bit of oil.  The crackers get a good egg coat and they soften in the cooking process. 

[I wanted to make some of the fried crackers to show a pic, but those crackers are sometimes hard to find.  There is a certain bakery that sells them but they sell out early and I can never make it in time!  But believe you me, they are delicious!  I also tried to search for a picture of them.  I don't have any in my archives nor could I find one online.  But I will promise to get a pic as soon as I can.]

Calabaza Pela’ y algo mas: Part 3 July 9, 2009

I would like to tell you that with the years and having children that my grandmother’s cooking skills improved.  To an extent, I would say that they have.  Now, don’t get my wrong, my grandmother does now know how to cook.  The things she really knows how to make, she makes fairly well.  But its never advisable for her to branch out from the things she knows.  When she does… sometimes its best to sneak some bread and butter rather than actually eating them.  My grandfather doesn’t say much about these experiments of her’s.  He’ll honestly eat anything you place in a plate in front of him.  My aunt and my mother are the ones who are the ones likely to say something about her cooking.  My older brother and I just learned to eat it and smile politely but never encourage her to think we like it enough for her to make it again.  [We have failed at this, as she sometimes had remade things just on the basis that "los nenes" (the kids = my brothers and myself) liked it so much last time, how could she not make it again?]

Its perhaps a talent to be able to follow recipes and make something spectacular on the first try.  It takes intuition and good cooking sense.  My mother and I both posses this.  We’re not afraid to stray from a recipe on a first try to be sure that its something edible.  Its also a talent to be able to just wing it when cooking.  My older brother is famous for this but my sis in law would argue that I achieve it with far more success.  My mother might not follow recipes, but she does plan things out in advance before cooking.  Perhaps even a day or two.  My aunt takes a week to plan things out.  I plan things out 3 hours in advance and then adjust to what I have on hand.  My grandmother tries to do the same but I think there is some absent-minded sort of distraction that happens when she cooks.  As ill fated as switching salt for sugar, my grandmother has this terrible propensity to switch things on the basis of their similar appearance.  She might have said that she didn’t know at the time the visual difference between sugar and salt… it’s my belief that she might have just thought that because they looked alike, she could make the substitution.  This is probably the basis of some of her most outrageously bad recipes. 

This brings me to one of the most infamous stories when it comes to my grandmother.  She was making dinner one evening for the kids and decided to make pasta.  She hadn’t checked the cupboards before starting and realized too late that she didn’t have the right pasta sauce (I would like to think that, but for all I know she might have thought that this was going to work right) and then decided that, because of their similarities in appearance, she was going to use barbecue sauce instead.  My grandmother is so sheepish about the ribbing and teasing she gets over this terrible menu that she refuses to tell me how she prepared the dish.  I’m left to only speculate as to how she might have tried to serve it.  Knowing my grandmother, I honestly believe that she just served it after boiling the pasta and poured the barbecue sauce over it.  No doctoring or modifications.  She’s just not that type of cook. 

My mother and her siblings caught sight of what she was making for dinner and they went on an eating strike. 

A literal stike.   

I mean, they went out to the garage, made signs and sat outside with them.

When my grandfather came home, he caught sight of his three kids there and inquired as to their being there.  Hearing that they had refused to eat, he reprimanded them.  If their mother had cooked them dinner than they should have eaten it and been done with it.  He then went inside to see what the fuss was about.  They tell me that my grandfather went inside for only about 2 minutes and was outside on strike with them. 

That was another bread and butter dinner nights, to say the least. 

last summer: lil bro, myself & our grandparents

Family randomness & a birthday party July 5, 2009

When my older brother and I shared an apartment in college, we jokingly called it the “TV Convention Center” (TV being the initials for out last names, as in PR culture, you use bother paternal and maternal last names).  Any party or event to be had within our circle of friends was automatically set at our place, sometimes without our knowledge.  Too many impromptu events transpired though.  Our family is one of ingenuity and spontaneity.  A pot of pasta became dinner parties with wine and appetizers.  Finding a new bottle of wine or mixed drink made us dress up and sip it by candlelight, pretending accents and smoking cigars.  Moonlight strolls to the beach became picnics.  My brother especially would wander the supermarket and find some bizarre ingredient that he just had to try in something, like that anchovy paste which remained half a tube in the fridge until I cleared it out when I moved out.

This comes from our mother.  Until she had my little brother, it was often just the three of us.  I don’t think we ever felt lacking in company.  Weekend excursions would lead us apple picking or picnics at Flushing Meadow park.  My mom taught us to be open minded when it comes to food and for the most part we are fearless.  We love trying new things and a single ingredient always launches a menu.  As my mother is diabetic, I have had to curb the baking somewhat.  However, as I help out with the groceries, I often find interesting things to make and try out.  Last week it was a rare occasion when my mother and I actually went to the supermarket together.  As we wandered through the aisles getting things we needed, and things we just plain didn’t need but just like to have, my mother spotted a little jar of caviar.  She suddenly declared that she wanted caviar but didn’t know what to make with it.  I’d never had caviar but I told her that all I knew that required it were more like appetizers than actual meals. 

This did not deter me from putting it in the cart, however.  The following day We made deviled eggs, put a bit of caviar on them, placed that on a bagel crisp and called it lunch. 

the pic isn't great but I guarantee that it was yummy

As we were sitting around the counter, gently placing the caviar on top of our crisps and nibbling on mozzarella, I couldn’t help but giggle.  Had that happened in Mayaguez back in the age when we could muster the rohirrim, we would have had mimosas and gotten everyone to wear preppy brunch clothes to go with our experiment.  We weren’t that far off in Yauco, though.  I told my mom that we almost seemed like snobs.  Seriously, how many people do you know to just buy caviar on a whim?

 

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In other family news, the reason I was all late in doing the Calabaza Pela’ series was that it was my lil bro’s bday.  He turned 13 on Thursday. 

the munchkin and I

I feel old now but it’s been interesting to see him grow up. 

We grilled up some delicious food and made all sorts of salads.. like coleslaw, potato salad and carrot salad. 

The bday spread, super yum!

It was all delicious but exhausting work. 

So, busy days with the family.  That was my “weekend”. 

Calabaza Pela y Algo Mas: Part 2 July 5, 2009

Everyone probably thinks the world of their grandparents, that is if they are fortunate to have met them and even more fortunate to have amazingly caring and doting individuals for said grandparents.  I know I am extremely grateful for having them and can only hope to be able to have them for quite some time more.  I’m very close to my grandparents.  To me, when I think of grandparents, I always think of my grandparents on my mother’s side; abuela/grandma is always my mother’s mother, Maria, and abuelo/grandfather is always my mother’s father, Antonio or To~o.  [If I were to ever speak of my other grandparents (who are also living), I always specify their names.  Like "Abuela Ivette" or "Abuelo Troche".]  My mother’s house is right next to their’s and it’s about 45 steps from our doorway to theirs (yes, I counted one day). 

Its not unusual for us to take a cup of sugar or take an onion or some garlic, in order to finish up a recipe we’re cooking, from one another’s kitchens.  In fact, whenever I spent the weekend in my hometown while studying in college, I considered “shopping for groceries” to be really taking some things from both my own house and my grandparents’ house.  This was a source of much amusement in our family whenever I wandered with shopping bags and collected what I would need to keep myself fed in Mayaguez, but it was unheard of for me not to take anything.  My grandmother would not let me leave unless she saw me take something, even if it was a can of tuna.  She’d offer me everything and anything I could want from her shelves.  She’d prepare extra food on the weekends so I could take leftovers.  Even my grandfather, to some a rather oblivious person, would notice if I had not done my rounds and would express concern over it.

With my grandma, as a typical Puerto Rican lady, any visit to her house will have you being fed to within an inch of your life.  You’d walk away with a trimming from her flowers and some extra fruit or viandas.  At 75, she doesn’t seem to be slowing down much.  Her memory shorts out but that, I’m told, is something she’s had always.  My grandfather, at the age of 83, is supposed to be the one with potential memory problems due to his artery blockages that limited the blood that got to his brain for many years.  His absent-minded nature is oh-so very intentional.  I find them rather amusing.  My grandfather will definitely seem oblivious to my grandma’s presence, but will miss her if she’s not around.  My grandma will complain about my grandfather but she will not go anywhere without him.  For many years they had slept in separate bedrooms but a couple years ago my grandfather was relegated to sharing the bedroom with my grandma and never returned to his own room.  He won’t admit to it; however, he sleeps better when he’s closer to my grandmother. 

I remember clearing out old pictures and finding one of my grandfather in uniform.  He is a Korean War veteran, although my grandmother informs me that she never saw him in uniform.  They met after his return.  With a giggle she told me that it was his eyes which attracted her to him.  He has the clearest blue-green eyes (a color I often lament not having inherited!) and was quite the hunk with his crisp black hair and moustache.  My grandmother still finds him quite handsome.  The other morning she was looking at him in the soft morning light and told him he was cute… He told her that the cats were cute, to go admire them and not him.  That response is quite typical of my grandfather.  He’s one of the jokester curmudgeons.  The sort that you doubt has any attachment to anyone, and then surprises you with something, like how he had a framed picture of my older brother and I in his clunker of a jeep.  Of course, my grandmother retorted by saying that she wished she was one of the cats because he at least petted them and gave them attention.    

My grandparents have been married for well over 55years, its something like 57 years to be exact.  They never talk much about their courtship, but I do know that they eloped.  My grandmother packed up what little clothes she had and went off with him.  The first house they rented was in an area of town called “El Tendal”.  I remember asking my grandfather about 2 years ago why he married my grandma.  He said that he hadn’t the faintest idea but that she tried to kill him early in their marriage.  I don’t think I laughed so much at anything he’s said before.  He said he meant it literally.   

My grandmother hadn’t actually tried to kill him.  She just made a VERY big mistake that will live in infamy in my grandfather’s memory.  As the eldest of the girls, my grandmother was actually sent out to the fields to work and never learned the domestic arts.  Learning to sew and craft came later, out of her own interest as an adult.  Cooking was a matter of trial and error; the errors are what we laugh about now and inspired enough memories to begin the Calabaza Pela’ series.  So when it came to making my grandfather his first cup of coffee as a married couple, she didn’t know the difference between salt and sugar.  That I mean literally, as she heaped two spoonfuls of salt in his coffee mug.  What that must have tasted like, only my grandfather knows.  He thusly learned to keep everything labeled in the house.

 

Cafe- Recien Casados

1. Boil water.
2. Colar el cafe.
3. Sweeten to taste, but ensure that it’s sugar before filling the spoon.

Calabaza Pela’ y algo mas… June 25, 2009

It often feels like I have a thousand ideas floating around inside my head.  For the most part, 90% of them just stay floating; shifting and evolving to something else until completely forgotten.  Other times these ideas just begin to mold and shape themselves into something so much more substantial to the point where it seems like a large boulder is in my brain.  It becomes so that I can’t think of anything else until I’ve dealt with it or done whatever it is that has been persistently nagging my mind.  It’s like my brain is a slow cooker and everything inside of it gets done at a different time. 

Now… let me tell you a story, or rather the background to some stories:

I think every family has their stories which they bring out in fond memory whenever they get together.  Many of the stories before my time have been repeated so often that they have just stuck in my memory.  Other stories were told just a time or two but were indelibly recorded in my mind.  What I began to notice, however, was that lot of these stories had to do with food.  The original idea of attempting a sort of cookbook came about a few years ago when it began as a joke between myself, my mother and my aunt upon first realizing the connection.  Some of the recipes are actual ones that can be made, others are more metaphorical and still others were actual recipes but I honestly would not hazard anyone to make them.  But the more I analyzed each remembered “recipe” as I grew up, the more I could identify certain factors that had to do with the history of my family and the relationships had between each person with one another.

While my older brother was the English major and the, supposedly, main writer of our family, I don’t think he has the sensitivity and capacity to analyze some of these stories and relate them to our own family.  So the task sort of unofficially fell on me, if ever it were to be done.  The idea may have started off as a joke but I have to say that the idea struck me quite seriously.  Like I mentioned, I needed to put it into my mind to let it process and slow-cook until the right moment.  Lately I’ve become compelled to get theses recipes and stories written down and share some of them with others. 

Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I’m home more and have been spending a lot of time with my grandparents; my grandmother often accompanies me on my errands and inevitably I hear more stories or repetitions of some that I already knew but never tire of hearing.  I’ve been very fortunate to be able to have spent as much time with them as I have and gotten to know them and their history.  Perhaps its in seeing them now, growing older and declining in health with their age that compells me to try and honor them by telling their stories in my own way.  I love my family very much and whenever I refer to my family, I refer to just this specific group comprised of my mother, my mother’s parents, my mother’s siblings and my own two brothers with the added wives and children for both my uncle and my older brother.  (Sidenote: While, as a Puerto Rican family, our numbers are quite large, I cannot say that I associate at all with my father or my father’s family.  But that was my father’s choice and for those who cannot make a choice, like my younger half-siblings, I will try in the future to get to know them but on my own terms.)

So, whenever this family cookbook gets mentioned in my house, it has been universally decided that the title of it and the leading story is one about Calabaza Pela’ (translation: plain pumpkin).  And here’s why:                   

You could say that we’ve only reached the classification of middle-class with this generation, but we’re hanging more on the lower end of it.  My grandparents both came from very poor and humble backgrounds and my mother and her siblings grew up in this environment.  My uncle just recently visited for 2 weeks and everytime he’s here there are stories to be had.  It always amazes me how differently people remember the same period of time in their lives.  You often have to listen to the account of the same event from several view points in order to get an accurate idea of where the truth of the memory lies.  My uncle recounts the past with exaggerated hilarity, my aunt remembers things with serene plain-ness and my mother remembers things with a lot of anger while my grandmother tells things with embarrased humility and my grandfather in a more obtuse but blunt way.

But all tellers seem to agree on this one story where the words of my grandmother, to me, are so profoundly touching that I can not retell this story without actually crying over it. (Maybe you can say that my way of retelling is by far the most sentimental) So know that even as I type this, tears are clouding my vision but I shall endeavor not to allow typos to escape me as I do. 

As was the tendency for impoverished Puerto Rican families looking to change their lot in life, my grandparents had moved from PR to Chicago, IL, when my mother (their youngest) was barely a year old.  As was often found by such families after a few years, their situation was often not very improved by their moving and many of them return to the island where at least they can own their own land and perhaps even work it a little to get some sustenance for their family.  So it was that my grandfather had to bring back his wife and three children back to PR.  They could not afford to carry much back with them.  My mother often mentions with deep bitterness the fact that she could not travel back with even her childhood doll. 

For a time they stayed with the large grouping of my grandmother’s siblings and children as the land that my great-grandfather left behind was divided.  My grandmother was the third oldest of 6 but the eldest of the girls.  She cannot recall when injury she may have caused her father for her to be the one child left nothing upon his death.  However, after pleading her case to her siblings, the land was divided so that all of them could have their piece.  The house that was then constructed was of extremely modest size.  My uncle is the one who says that it was so tiny that you did not have enough space to extend your hands to be able to decently clap your hands.  (Sidenote: As the columns of the house still stand on the property which my grandparents and my mother’s house are located, I can tell you that it was about 15′ wide and perhaps maybe 20′ long) 

It was on one of their first few nights in this house, when they had nothing more to eat except plain boiled pumpkin.  It was all they could afford and my grandmother said in most heartfelt ways “Jamas pense que tendriamos que comer calabaza pela’ sazonado con solo la sal de nuestras lagrimas y nada mas.” (translation: I never thought that we would only have to eat plain pumpkin, seasoned solely by the salt from our tears, and nothing more.)

Calabaza Pela’

• fresh pumpkin             

1. Boil pumpkin in 3inch chunks until fork tender.
2. Consume with the heartfelt grief of all things missing with such a plain meal for your family.
    

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It is my hope to bring a new story and recipe every week and try to introduce you to the amazing people in my life.  I can only hope to do them justice by honoring such memories and learn more about my own family history.  Such it was that the title was created for the series of stories that could go with it… “Calabaza Pela’ y Algo Mas” (Plain Pumpkin and Something More) because there is so much more to tell and since then there have been joys to flavor our meals aside from sorrows.

A girl and her family June 13, 2009

So, my older brother is in the Army and on his leave before being deployed off to S. Korea, he brought his family on down to PR.  There was a mission for the week that they would be here, it was to get the families together for the baptism of my nephew.  We’d been waiting on Dee’s brother, who was going to share godparent duty with me.  It was sort of a given since the baby’s birth that I would be his godmother, but I was honored just the same.  In a whirlwind of about a month, we landed a cute little outfit for an active toddler, the decorations that were emblazoned with Baptism motifs, made favor boxes of chocolate pops and handmade rosaries.  And all this was just my side of the family working on it.  

Sure, there was a big kerfuffle over the fact that the baptism was held at Dee’s father’s place and chosen church, but in the end it came together very nicely.  

The picture of the perfect godmother

I totally kept waiting for them to issue me the wand and wings.

With so little days I hoarded up my sis in law as much as possible.  We even snuck away for a night at a very nice hotel with my gay hubby.  We got mani/pedi combos, ordered room service, dressed up like we were all important and just laughed so much until it hurt.  We never made it into the pool nor did we gamble at the casino.  Still the stay was a smashing success.  

A girl in California June 12, 2009

Boy, talk about something being better late than never at all!

So it’s been a year, almost, since I made my trip to Monterey, California.   

I went on the excuse that my sis in law desperately needed me there.  But really I was doing it to escape myself.  I’ve made it no secret my dislike for living here.  But, due  to no other clear alternative, I remain and try to make the best of it.  When my mother heard that I was going to California with the help of my uncle to get me there, she decided to send my little brother with me.  

 

So what I thought was going to be 6 weeks of sweet tranquility with my best friend in the whole wide world, turned out to be first 4 weeks of hearing my mother bitch at me for not taking good care of my little brother and then finally 2 weeks of just getting to be myself.

But it wasn’t all bad… I was in amazing company.  

There were the Mary Kay ladies with all their spirit and perkiness:DeeDee is going to hate me for putting this picture.

There was my beloved older brother, who is in the army, and his wife, who is my bestest friend ever

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There was also my gorgeous nephew, who is the cutest child in existence (& will remain such until I have my own someday):

There was Army Blue Eyes, who took me out for a date & a fun evening out on the town: 

  Then there was the food! OMG the food!  I wish I could go into minute details about every place I went and every single morsel of food that I ate (but then I’d break the rule I set for myself when summarizing that I’d do this in as little posts as possible).  But there was NaRa (amazing Korean barbecue), Ambrosia (exquisite Indian cuisine), Rosine’s (pseudo Italian but with AMAZING desserts).  Then there were just the basics from Carl’s Jr and the Bagel Factory (which I shall have you know that there are NONE of either on this entire freakin’ island!).  Not to mention the Farmer’s Market which we’d go to nearly every Tuesday so I could stock up on fresh berries.  How I miss blackberries and raspberries.. so many for just a few bucks (I’ll have you know a single pound of strawberries here is about 7-8 bucks.. I know, whatta ripoff!) and the wonderful little stalls of food.  I had my fill of pita, hummus, spanakopita and more! 

In the end, I returned feeling energized and, of all things, I actually returned with a full time job.  While in Monterey I did 4 full interviews for a company based there looking for Bilingual residents of PR.  So I landed and within a week after filling out the appropriate paperwork, I had nabbed me a job as an on-phone Spanish Interpreter.  Not too shabby, eh?

The eternal Graduation Day May 24, 2008

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My little brother is 11.  He will be turning 12 this July and he just graduated from 6^th grade.  From here he will be going to junior high and a new school.  His transition through school will be backwards from mine.  Where I spend elementary school in a Catholic school and then went to public school for the rest, he will now be entering a Catholic school here from his many years in public school.  And I have to say that it was about time.  If his education can be indicated by the way his graduation was handled, well… let’s just say I have no real faith in the public school system. 

I have been to many graduations.  I played in the band and we had to play in many of them.  This would have to be the most disorganized event I have ever had to suffer the entirety of.  First it was to begin at 8AM, so of course I had to be awoken at an early hour on a weekend.  We were there just before 7 because my mother wished to take a picture of the school when it was still empty.  And as luck would have it, I hadn’t been out of the car any more than 5 minutes when my show broke. 

Luckily, they were my mother’s sandals.  I had forgotten my prettier shoes in Mayaguez and had to borrow the only pair that fit me.  Also, as luck would have it, my mother had a pair of flipflops in her car.

So I proceeded to just prance around in those.

It wasn’t my day, no one should care what was on my feet.

I should have just worn my own flipflops instead of borrowing shoes.

The kiddies did their procession and looked very cute.  They did an opening number where they did all these cute hand gestures.  OF course, my dear brother seems always to be a bit lost and confused.  In fact, his gestures had a 2 second delay when doing them.  He was in the second row and my mother proudly pointed out how her baby was faking it.  We kept giggling about it.

Then came all the anthems.  I didn’t know there was going to be so many.  There was the American anthem, the PR, the one for Yauco and one even for the school.  After the kiddies got back on stage and sang the song for their graduation, my aunt asked if each group was going to have their own anthem.  It was all that was missing.  Right before the children sang their graduation song, my mother tried to get a program from one of the mother’s who had a basket full of them.  The skanky beeyotch proceeded to ignore my mother’s request and speak and hand out programs to her clique-y friends who were sitting right behind us.  My mother of course insisted and got the program along with dirty looks.  This was how I learned that the school was riddled with all those cliquey skanks and made everything highly politicized.  Can you believe that?  For a sixth grade graduation?!

There was the preliminary greetings by everyone and their momma from the school and the educational district people.  Then there was a recorder recital which was something about ‘pickets’ but I kept hearing the title being pickles.  When I pointed out that the dancing ones were next, my mother misheard and thought there were going to be dancing ‘worms’.  This sent us into another fit of giggles. 

Then we had an hour of what felt like a round of self-congratulating amongst the administration.  Again everyone and their momma got on stage and gave a longer speech about themselves and the school, and the principal even went so far as to reprimand the kiddies when they applauded and whistled for the president of their graduating class.  There was even a moment when the principal was offering keepsakes to the people who were speaking and you could tell on the teachers’ faces that they hadn’t gotten anything for the person she was offering it to. 

The principal was just a rude lady in general.  She hogged the microphone, told a teacher to cut her speech short and she yanked the microphone out of several people’s hands.  Afterwards there was another hour and something where they gave out medals for all the different subjects.  Usually they reserve another event for this, instead they made us suffer through it during the actual graduation.  My mother said that this was how one felt when one had an ordinary child.  I could see what she meant, all my graduations had me going up and down receiving all sorts of medals and recognitions.  My younger brother was no where close to getting any of them.

 

 

He actually looked very bored throughout it.

Then in true bass ackwards fashion, they let the kids change the dangly thingies on their caps and throw them up in the air.  What ensued was about 10 minutes of mayhem as the kiddies scrambled to get their hats back and settled in again because they still had to do the alphabetical procession to get their diplomas.  And here, finally, luck was in our favor.  My little brother’s last name begins with an A.  The one good thing his father gave him and was therefore the first person to get his diploma.  My mother and I took advantage of the situation and took lots and lots of pictures.

But we couldn’t escape from the graduation right after.  We had to wait to get his shirt and the tickets to his dance.  Then finally we drove off to the celebration lunch.  My bro decided that Longhorn was his choice for the meal.  It was wonderful, sharing it with all the family. 

After the wonderful meal we went to the mall and Borders, as per the graduate’s wishes.  We wandered around and looked at everything, with no real reason to be there except to look.  When we were done, we made our way to the Walgreens in Yauco where my older brother had sent pictures of the baby to be developed for my mother to have.  As we were leaving, her car wouldn’t start.  We popped the hood and just seemed to wait around for my grandfather and aunt to come and get us and check out what was wrong.  Lots of guys stopped by to see if they could help.  It was the last one who did who happened to have a toolbox and knew about cars.  He helped disconnect the battery, cut one the wires and reattached something or other.  It was his father’s birthday and he stayed around with us anyway to be sure we were alright and had everything handled. 

I should have taken a picture of him.  But, his name is Raph and he was very sweet.  It turns out that he goes to my university and is in my faculty.  However, he doesn’t like what he’s studying and wants to leave.  My mother accused me of flirting with him.  I said I was just being nice.  We had to make small talk while they went to buy the new battery.  It’s not my fault.  All the same, my mother said that that was the sort of guy I should date.  One who was handy with cars and tools and was nice enough to help ladies in distress.