My Momma Loved to Cook More Love Than Food

Dalbin Osorio, LGSW
Dalbin Osorio is a social worker in the DMV area who fights for justice in the child welfare system through his work with the DC Child and Family Services.

My mom used to wake us up on Sundays to the sounds of merengue drums and the smell of Mistolin.
"Sundays weren't for resting."
Even now, and I haven't really lived at home for 10 years, the first thing my senses pick up on when I visit is the smell.
"No, listen, these kids were always hungry. 'Ma, I'm hungry' were like the only words they knew."

Pastelon recipe

Sofrito or Sazon

6 -10 Plantains, ripe with black spots, peeled and cut in half
3 -5 garlic cloves, minced

Vegetable oil
1 Onion, minced
1 Cubanelle pepper, minced
Ajies dulces, minced (small sweet chile peppers)

1 habanero, minced, Optional but good
1⁄2cup minced fresh cilantro or 1⁄2cup minced fresh parsley

She came from the Dominican Republic and worked at a battery factory in Brooklyn. I tell people that and they never really understand.
"That was the only job I could find. It was me and all these women who just wanted to earn some money to provide for their children."
When people see my ambition, I think because they don't understand how my mom made it work for 27 cents an hour they don't realize: it's her fire that always motivates me.
"The only thing I ever asked of you was to be honest and true to yourself, but most importantly to love yourself. Good things come to people who feel they deserve them."

Filling mixture

Annatto oil (coconut is my choice) or vegetable oil (coconut is my choice) or  coconut oil (coconut is my choice)
2 tablespoons  vinegar
1bay leaf
1⁄3cup pimento-stuffed green olives, cut in half
1⁄2cup  raisins
1⁄2cup  tomato sauce

3 lbs  ground beef (make a mix of all three) or 3 lbs  ground turkey(make a mix of all three) or 3 lbs shredded pork (make a mix of all three)
2teaspoons powdered adobo seasoning (achiote)
2tablespoons  oregano
1⁄2teaspoon  ground cumin
1⁄2teaspoon  garlic powder, yes more
1teaspoon  paprika

I got kicked out of undergrad after my sophomore year, and I started taking online classes to try and finish my degree. One day, I was at the dinner table with my hands on my head wondering how my life had spiraled out of my control. At 23, that's what every 23 year old thinks.
"When I saw him that day with all this pressure, I hugged him and told him everything was going to be okay. I always felt that the pressure and the burden was never theirs to carry."
When I graduated with my Masters, I was so wrapped up in what it meant to me that I didn't even bother to figure out what it meant to her.
"It was a moment for him, not for me. Sure, I felt proud, but I also knew my son. I always bet on him."


My dad wasn't around, but I never really felt like I was missing anything. My mom liked baseball and boxing and action movies. There were very few times where I ever felt like "man, what would that be like"?
"It was important that they learned who their dad was for themselves. I didn't think it make sense to drive a wedge or to paint a picture that wasn't honest."
Even with me reconnecting with my dad, she never took it personal. Even now I think back and realize how selfish I was, because I never really appreciated all she did and how she didn't take it personal when I chose to get to know my dad.
"My job was to get him ready for the world. That was it. He made a lot of friends along the way, but the real friends showed him their desire to be in his life and not the other way around."

Toppings

2 -3 cups monterey jack cheese or 2 -3 cups  mozzarella cheese, shredded or 2 -3 cups shredded cheddar cheese or 2 -3 cups shredded oaxaca cheese
5 -7 eggs, whisked
1⁄4 cup  milk

The stories my mom used to tell us, I would later realize, created her own trauma. She felt abandonment, fear, anger, and sadness at all the crap she went through. She was the "black sheep" because where all the other cousins she grew up with had their father, she didn't. And that was not something my grandma was willing to ever talk about.
"I used to ask all the time who my dad was, and my mother couldn't be bothered with the information."
She felt abandoned, and it was hard for her to deal with.
"Not abandoned, per say. It's just hard living life alone, and not being able to call a brother or sister to vent about something your parent did makes you lonely."

I did not like my momma growing up. She wouldn't let me be a kid. I remember wanting to go ice skating, and she would always shut down any weekend plans I would try to make. I used to think she just wanted to control me.
"It was embarrassing to have to tell you we didn't have money for the things you wanted. I wish I was rich so you could've done it all."
My mom was resourceful though. I remember needing black pants for an audition for Little Shop of Horrors, and I didn't own a pair. I remember getting really sad because I was going to have to miss the audition.
"I saw how sad he was, and so I took a pair of blue jeans that he never wore and I dyed them in the sink. I figured that, at the very least, he'd have an emergent pair of black pants for tomorrow."

Cooking instructions
Heat a large deep skillet add oil of choice, enough to generously cover the bottom of your pan. Fry the plantains till they are a golden and just a little crispy on both sides. Remove from pan and set aside on paper towel. Repeat until all are fried and slightly crispy.
Add annatto oil to the same skillet add the ground meat of choice, garlic, onions, peppers, cilantro and or parsley, cooking over medium heat till meat is browned.
Add adobo, oregano, cumin, vinegar, bay leaf, olives, raisins, and tomato sauce. Season with black pepper to taste and salt to taste. Simmer 20 minutes. Remove and discard bay leaf.

The trauma she experienced, and how she made a life for herself that she was proud of in spite of it, is probably the thing I'm most proud of. She is the American dream, as much as any immigrant that comes here and busts their ass for their children. She was the first person to show me love through service.
"So many people would tell me to become a citizen, but I never wanted to sell my heritage away for benefits that didn't make me any more American. I wanted you to realize there are things that matter more than what we receive in exchange."

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.Butter or oil using the coconut oil from the fried plantains a 9x12 casserole pan.
Place half the plantain in a single layer and press down on them to fill all gaps.
Top with half the meat mixture.
Sprinkle half the cheese over the meat mixture.
Press the remaining plantains to flatten.
Place the flattened plantains on the cheese, top with remained meat mixture then cheese.
Mix the eggs with the milk. Pour the egg evenly over the the dish, let it sit for a few minutes allow the egg to soak inches.
If you like cheese like i do go ahead and sprinkle additional cheese on top.
Bake in the oven at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.
Let rest 15-20 minutes before slicing.

Whenever something good happens to me, I make sure to always thank her. It's important for me that she knows how much influence she had on that good thing.
"I never need a thank you. My thank you is you continuing to move forward. Always forward, never backwards. Walk into a room and own it. Let them see that they are captivated by a man raised by a woman. Because they won't speak about you when you mess up, they'll speak about me."

I love you Momma.
"I love you sweetheart."

Tamales Chingones

La mama: n. La mas chingona de todas

n.The most badass of them all

Of course my first post was going to be about her. Of course it was going to be about the best cook on any coast. Of course it was going to be about the woman who welcomed me home to the smells of fresh tortillas, frijoles, homemade salsa, and fruit from our trees everyday growing up. Of course it was going to be about the woman that grew up in poverty with one pair of shoes and dolls made of yarn. Of course it was going to be about the woman who grew up  in a machista world with rules I cannot even fathom that make me want to scream just thinking about. Of course it was going to be about the woman that came from the smallest pueblo and a 5th grade education into a huge, terrifying world of uncertainty with nothing but a dream for a better life. Of course it was going to be about the woman who gave me everything while keeping nothing for herself. Of course my first blog post is about the strongest woman I know, my mom.

When I think of the warmth of my mother, I always think about making tamales around the holidays. Before I could even reach the kitchen counter, I pulled up a chair, rolled up my sleeves,felt the squishy, grainy masa between my fingers and filled pockets of corn-heaven with meat goodness. See the evidence below.

Growing up, Christmas was always the same no matter how old we got. We woke up early in the morning bumped some merengue mixed with traditional Christmas music and started our 10 hour endeavor. We would dance, laugh, and revolve around our kitchen for days on end. We spoke about relationships and stories, families and friends-- about the past and the future. Christmas in a Mexican household, like many other households, is centered around cooking and being in the kitchen together. The kitchen is the heart of the household always, but especially around Christmas, while we make dishes like tamales, ponche, and mole which are day long, multi-person feats.

Because of these vivid, vibrant memories around Christmas centered around my mom and her amazing (dare I say, the best) tamales, it is only natural she and her tamales would be the focus of the first spotlight.

I spoke to my my mom about when she started making tamales which painted a picture of how she grew in poverty and how poverty can affect celebrating a quintessentially joyous holiday. We chatted as she was beating the crap out of some masa--

Amaris: So mom, when did you start making tamales?

Mama: Well I can't even remember at this point. Well we only really made tamales when we could afford the ingredients. You know I grew up extremely poor, and lots of times we couldn't really afford to make tamales. It was really only in special times that we would make it and in years where my parents saved enough money for a good Christmas meal.

Amaris: So what would you make, if anything, when you couldn't afford it?

Mama: Well usually we would just make bunuelos (bunuelos are fried tortillas or dough with sugar) because it was cheap. We would make those and we would get one small toy usually made out of yarn or wood and that was our Christmas.**

**Inner Amaris Monologue: Fuck, comparing our feasts of me eating 20 tamales in one night and opening a sea of presents to my mom eating a fried tortilla like it's a treat and getting doll made from things you can find in your yard is too much. WHY DO I EVER COMPLAIN ABOUT ANYTHING.

A: So did you spend it with the immediate family or go out and spend it with people?

M: No. My parents were extremely strict. The pueblos would have these amazing Posadas around the whole town that would finish in these great parties with music and pinatas and food. [A Posada is a progression of a group of people going door to door reenacting Mary and Joseph searching for a place to stay. It is a hella Catholic tradition bu it's just an excuse to party at multiple people's homes. AKA the Mexican, guilt-ridden version of a block party that always ends in people getting crunk.] But my parents were so strict that we couldn't go so we would just longingly heard the music from our house and just thought about everyone having fun.**

**Inner Amaris monologue: OMFG I'M SOBBING EVERYWHERE RIGHT NOW. The fact that my mom's memories of Christmas were of her being cooped up inside a house listening to the laughter and music of people makes my heart tear in so many pieces. It makes sense that Christmas in our family has always been a large event centered around food, music, and tokens of our affection. Because my mom had none of that growing up, she needed feel a sense of family and community in the family she created since she remembers having none of that in her own upbringing.

^My grandma's house in Contitlan, Zacatecas, Mexico where my mom spent much of her life

A: Were your brothers allowed to go to the Posada?

M: Yeah the women were not allowed to go at all. The boys, once they got older (my mom is the eldest) were allowed to go if they wanted to.

A: So the girls were just expected to make the food while the men could go to the Posada?

M: Yes. The men didn't help make any of the food. My family was so strict on the women. We were expected to just stay in the house.

A: That seems ridiculously unfair.

M: Yeah. But, it was the only way we knew in our household.**

** Inner Amaris monologue: OH hell no. This is the epitome of how a machista culture feeds into multiple facets of the everyday lives of people in Latin America. It is not just in the expressions of blatant sexism but also in the everyday lives of communities as we can see in the way my mom's pueblo celebrates Christmas. Poverty wasn't the only factor contributing to my mother's inability to enjoy the pleasures of Christmas. It was the intersection of poverty and machismo that forced my mom to stay at home alone without the simple joys of Christmas within their community.

^My mom's pueblo, Contitlan, is in a rural area in Zacatecas, Mexico. The fun thing to do is to walk to the river. I kid you not

A: Well let's get back to these tamales. Is this your mom's recipe or yours or a mix?

M: It's a mix of a lot of things. I actually got the tip to put lemon in the vegetable shortening from my sister-in-law after I was older and making them on my own. Since they make tamales with lard usually, the lemon would cut the lard so it wasn't so heavy. Now I use it with the vegetable shortening and the lemon to make it nice and light.

A: So it seems like this recipe is really a mix of a lot of different women's recipes.

M: Yea, I just tried things here and there from different women in my family to finally arrive at this one I use today. Even now I still mess around with it. Like the rajas [rajas is a type of tamal that is stuffed cheese and chile. Sounds bomb right?] ones I make for you since you are a vegetarian [she rolled her eyes at this point]. I mix up different cheeses I like that I would have never had in Mexico like Feta cheese along with different salsas and moles. Trying new things and finding something tasty is the fun part of cooking.

A: And your creativity with cooking using your memories and what you learn over the years is what makes you such a badass cook and a badass lady.

**Inner Amaris Dialogue: The history of these tamales is so telling of the mixture of modern and old Mexican traditions. It includes the basic recipe passed down from my grandma which I am sure was passed by her mom, along with some tricks of the trade acquired through the years from aunts, and topped off with some original mama style. It brings together so many holiday experiences--painful ones, ones with my father's family, and finally ones with the family my parents created on their own in the U.S. It's why you can taste all the love in every pocket of goodness and why it will forever be my favorite meal made by my favorite person.

FOR THE TAMALE RECIPE CLICK HERE. 

Introducing the Chingonas

Chingona:
n. a badass bitch

Mexicanos, Guatemaltecos, Salvadorenos, Puerto Riquenos, Hondurenos, Cubanos. What do we all have in common? When you walk into one of these homes, you better believe you'll be welcomed in by 15 types of home cooked meals at once served with 35 different sides, a choice of 10 drinks made fresh from fruit or spiked with booze from home country, and finished off with newly brewed cafe con leche and vibrant pan dulce. Who possess these powers to whip up a ten course meal after you drop by unannounced giving them no time to prepare? Who can possibly tell you all the chisme in town while simultaneously frying, baking, stewing, and sauteing their way to your heart? La abuela, la tia, and the most common--la mama, of course. And yes, all of them are chingonas to the bone.

I am the daughter of a badass immigrant mother from Mexico, granddaughter to a couple of powerful abuelas who take no shit, and a sister to a tough woman who was the first to try out this whole "American" thing for our sibling group. As any daughter of an immigrant family, we witness all the emotions put forth in the meals of our female family members. For better or for worse, our Latinx culture has instilled a sense of pride in women's ability to bring communities into our homes in order to break some bread and share a drink. Chingona women in Latinx culture carry with them the weight and pressure brought forth by machismo which declares that women are meant to be in the kitchen serving others. And while we can go on for days about the need to rid ourselves of this machista culture (see later blog posts for rants), the beauty that came from this unjust system is that we are magnets that hold our families together and kitchens are our platform. We dance to merengue while we stir the arroz, we organize events while we taste the mole, we kiss and hug our way through the salsas, and we delegate like nobody's business. The final result after hours of toiling over comales, ovens, and frying pans is a masterpiece of a meal imbued with the same love passed down over decades and centuries. These meals exude our care for one another.

These meals speak about our emotions in cultures where communication is usually suppressed. These meals tell more than history books about how communities lived, what resources they had, and who had power. These meals smell of joy and and taste  of adoration with notes of sadness and anger. They may have been made in times of celebration, or may have been made with tears during a painful moment of struggle. They may be made in homes of family members, on the street during festivals, or in businesses run by women (even if they don't own it, they definitely run that shit). These meals paint the world on your lips through limitations and liberation. These meals  speak of women--of strong, loving, fierce women.

This blog with delve into the dishes of one woman, one restaurant, one story, one tradition at a time. This blog is meant to showcase--not only the amazing dishes that originate from these kitchens all over the world--but also to honor the badass women who have used their strength to continue traditions manifest through food. These culinary traditions bring with them histories of celebration, betrayal, colonialism, religion, and machismo. 

You'll take these women's recipe as well as their memories of cooking and eating in their homes, pueblos, and cities. You'll learn about the ingredients and their history. You'll learn about cultural traditions that you've never heard of and maybe surprise you. You'll take away the beauty of women and our ability to hold up the world.