It’s been many years since I last cooked Locrio de Chicharrón de Cerdo (Rice and Pork Crackling), but it has always been a classic in my family. I ate it so many times at my paternal home, but I seldom cooked it myself. It’s time to change that.
Ate it I did, enjoyed it a lot too. Who raised by a Dominican mother didn’t? This dish, this meat, is part of our cultural DNA.
At home I am always searching for “the next great dish”, that one that we like so much it becomes part of our family tradition. There’s 99 reasons why turkey has never been in that category. To give you only two: Turkey is not a very juicy meat, and it doesn’t belong in either of our cultures (husband’s and mine).
These Breaded Turkey “Chops” with Guava Sauce may very well change all that.
French Toast was never part of my breakfast tradition when I was growing up. I think I first tried it during stays at hotels on my vacations. Surprisingly, the best I’ve tried was from one of those chain hotels while attending a convention in Miami many years ago. That was the only decent thing to eat there – the food was otherwise awful, and I have eaten better at some greasy dives of uncertain reputation.
Because I cannot in good conscience say that French toast is any good for me, it’s the kind of thing I might have just once in a decade. Except for this French Toast and Spiced Apple Pudding; because French toast might not make the healthiest breakfast, but I can be forgiven if I call it “dessert”.
When my daughter tried Chocolate de Maíz (Roasted Corn “Cocoa”) for the first time this week I had no hopes that she’d like it. Kids are fickle creatures, and knowing what they’ll love or hate is difficult to predict. Amazingly she loved it.
I’m glad she did, because I’m planning to make it often. After all, this is a drink that brings back memories of my own childhood.
A few years ago I asked my mother for the only thing I wanted to inherit from her: our family photos.
To me, photography is not only a passion, it is my memory. Along with defective genes, a lousy memory is also part of my inheritance. The box containing the yellowed photos in varied states of disrepair is the visual memory of where I come from. It’s part of what I am.
A couple of days ago, in the company of a steaming cup of coffee prepared just like grandma used to, and some Oatmeal and Almond Cookies, I slowly immersed myself in the past.