This is a post to say goodbye. Don’t worry, nobody is going anywhere, not literally at least. I think I am being too melodramatic. Does that happen to ladies “of a certain age”?
I have been doing this for 13 years, and by “this” I mean writing this blog. It’s fair to say that outside my immediate family, and my husband, this blog is one of the longest relationships I’ve ever had. Family is easy, we are glued by a strong bond of love, and a just as strong a bond of “can’t get rid of them”. Writing and keeping a blog, however, is more akin to marriage. Both require a lot of commitment, a lot of work, and the occasional reinvention to rekindle old flames. It is somewhat fitting that this post is about bolitas de tamarindo (tamarind balls), a treat that brings me so many good memories.
Somebody told me to make broccoli soup. Darn if I remember who. I can’t remember if it was on Instagram, Twitter or Facebook, it’s hard to keep track these days, but some lovely reader asked me for a broccoli soup.
And I can’t say no to soup, because I love soup. Ask my husband, or my kid. Or anyone who’s ever stayed for more than one meal.
So I made soup for me, and for a reader somewhere who I hope reads this.
Sometimes some dishes just don’t work. Don’t worry, I am not talking about the moro-locrio (rice with pork and black beans). This one actually did.
I love experimenting with food — isn’t that obvious? Inspiration for new recipes come from everywhere, and sometimes things work in my head much better than they turn out in reality. That is the part of food writing that few people see. The failures, be they small or spectacular, can be very disheartening.
But even from failure we can learn.
And Chicken Breasts Stuffed with Creamy Spinach and Onion marked the end of our Spring Break. Sniff… Farewell, Spring Break, that was fun!
We’re back to our regular routine of morning madness, rushing to make it to school on time. And one of my favorite daily routines: Walking my daughter to school. It’s a way to squeeze a bit of extra exercise in my day, and the part I enjoy the most: meandering conversations with my talkative 8 year old. If you have ever come into possession of an 8 year old you know what I am talking about. There is always something amazing to hear, and questions. Lots of questions.
We have touched many subjects on our walks, from the mundane to the profound, from the difficult to the silly. I really love those walks, and specially the conversations.
We humans do not always fit into neat patterns of nationality, ethnicity, tribe or language, so why should our food?
Migration, conquest and colonial rule, refugees and population displacement, travel and exploration and modern-day tourism mean that the lines between nationality and gastronomy can be blurred.