Babalu Blog

Potaje

Yesterday, I had to inspect the roofing work at a school that my office is overseeing the construction of. It was about 10:30 AM, had just rained, and it was about 90 degrees outside. I don't know how roofers can stand it, but it was a sauna up on that roof. I can't even begin to describe the sweltering heat and massive humidity that one finds on a rooftop under those conditions.

I finish the inspection and get back in my truck with the A/C blowing full blast. At this point I'm not only covered in sweat but completely parched. Luckily, my parents house is only about 5 minutes away so I decide to swing by and get a little respite from the heat and quench my thirst with a cold Materva that are always found in my mom's fridge. (Matervas are a Cuban soda made from the "mate" plant.)

I pull up in front of Mom's house and as Im getting out of the truck, I see Mom coming out the front door with her usual smile on.

"Señora," I say. "Como estas?"

"Bien mijo, y tu?" She replies. "I thought you were el viandero"
("El viandero" is a guy that drives around the neighborhood in a covered truck selling all kinds of produce, from tomatoes to yuca, boniato, yame, etc. )

I'm about to ask her why she's waiting for the viandero but as I walk in the house I already know. I can smell it. She's making potaje. Potaje is a porridge, Cuban style. This one is potaje de frijoles colorados, red bean porridge. Yum. The aroma is incredible, it just takes control of the entire house and makes it smell like heaven.

So I ask mom what viandas she needs and tell her that I'll go to the market and get them for her. She says no. "The viandero always comes by at this time."

I go to the kitchen and get myself my Materva, all the while not wanting to uncover that pot of delicious gold on the stove as it would be torturous because it isnt done yet and I wouldnt have time to wait for it. Mom stays in the front porch waiting for the produce man.

I bring my Materva back to the front porch and my mom is still waiting. I sit down with her and I notice she has a little sandwich bag in her hand full of quarters.

"What's that, Mami?"

"Para el viandero," she says. "I didn't have any other money."

Hearing her say that damn near broke my heart. "Come on," I say, "I'm gonna take you to the market." She refuses.

"Ok then, let me take you to the viandero that's always on 34th street," I tell her as I lock the front door. "Vamos."

She reluctantly gets in the truck and we drive to 34th Street but the viandero isn't at his usual spot. "Bueno," I tell her, "now let's go to the market." She tells me no again, doesn't want me to get in trouble at work. I decide to go ahead to the store and while I'm making the U-turn, there's the produce guy coming up behind us.

We buy everything she needs. Calabaza, boniatos and un aji verde and go back home.

I peel and cut the boniato for her and cut the calabaza into slices and remove the seeds. She opens up the big pot and slowly slips in the boniato. The Calabaza comes later as the pumpkin always falls apart.

I don't know what my mom is thinking at that moment. I can't imagine how she's feeling right then with her 38 year old baby boy helping her make el potaje, but I have to hold back the tears. Here I am at this stage in my life, almost middle aged, helping my mom in her twilight years make her world famous potaje and all I can think is "I don't remember ever having helped her make potaje. Ever."

All those years that I lived with them, I realize, I truly didn't appreciate moments like these. Sure, I was always there when they needed me and vice versa, but this is different. There is an overwhelming beauty to this moment yet an unwavering sadness too.

I don't know if I'll ever again live this moment. I don't know if she'll ever make a potaje that she is more proud of. I don't know if I'll ever eat a potaje with so much in it. A potaje with not only spices and beans and boniato and papas and calabaza and lacon, but a potaje of unspoken love and understanding.

"You know," she says to me, "if you call your niece and tell her that I'm making potaje, maybe she'll bring Brandon by for some. I can strain it for him."

Amanda, if you read this, call your grandmother. The potaje will be delicious.

Posted by Val Prieto at September 3, 2003 09:13 AM | TrackBack