When
we were mere children, my cousin Cristina and I used to spend summer days at
our grandparents' bizarre and quirky house on Ramon Anador street, a lush
neighborhood enclave only thirty minutes from my own parents’ home. Each day
we'd rummage through my grandfather Sebastian’s luxurious garden finding honey
suckle and trumpet flowers to draw in their sweetness; we'd hide in the cool
and enormous oleander bushes and pretend we were in a dense green forest where
witches and fairies made their homes. At other times we'd play ‘house’ with our
dolls and shared our grass salads which we’d dressed with lemon juice from the
sweet and bountiful Meyer lemon tree, we'd also ‘borrow’ a pinch of salt from
our abuela (grandma) for a more flavorful dish. By the noon hour we were ravenous so we'd
pick up our dolls and the little China plates and bowls to meet our
grandparents in the dining room (after washing our red, sweaty hands and faces)
for the mid-day meal. I enjoyed favorite foods from both my grandmas. Sophia's
best dish was Shepherd’s Pie and the wonderful, flaky baked quince turnovers –
a most treasured childhood memory... it was the first bite and its immediate
warmth throughout my chest and the harmony that made me love them every time.
Such
memories seem to never leave the scope of my consciousness, the comfort of a
sweet turnover, the companionship of a special cousin, my abuela Sophia,
rolling pin in hand, preparing the dough; the quirky multi-leveled house -with
a patio abutted with an assortment of potted, opulent plants at its center- and
a working aljibe (water well) in the farthest passage between the entrance
steps and the patio.
The
mid-size kitchen was my grandma Sophia’s sanctuary, it was sunny and organized
unlike my mother’s.
I
also have fond memories of all my mother’s siblings meeting for Sunday dinner
at that funky old, large and red tiled dining room; a long table to accommodate
about 14, the young ones sitting in the patio in summer, even in a soft drizzle
(because that's what we loved) at a table made by our abuelo (grandpa) Sebastian, out of
smooth wood planks. Our stools being cement blocks painted in different fun
colors. My cousins and I (about six of us) patiently waiting Sophia’s home-made
pasta, either spinach ravioli, gnocchi or tallarines (tagliatelle) with her most
delicious meat sauce on top plus grated Parmesan which we had grated by hand
earlier that day, taking turns -Cristina and I- because we were the oldest,
knees on a stool, the grater heavy, helping to turn the block of cheese in our
hands into perfectly grated shavings.
I
was lucky to have learned early on that food is about so much more than
nourishment -always bringing forth the memories of comfortable family bonding,
and childhood innocence back to me every time I choose to. Now, with most of
those people gone I know that all those recollections from the past bring me
warmth and comfort- once again.
