May 08, 2005
Chicharos
I was one of those kids that always gave my mom problems at dinner time. Mr. Finecky eater. There were some things I just refused to eat much to my mother's frustration. And it wasnt necessarily because I didnt like the taste of certain things, I hadnt actually ever tasted some of the dishes I so vehemently refused to eat. Some dishes, I just didnt like the way they looked.
Take potaje de chicharo, for example. Split pea porridge. It's green, it's thick and gooey, it's got chunks of who knows what vegetables floating around in there and chunks of lacon, hamhocks. Mom would make chicharos at least once a week and I always knew exactly what day it would be because she would tell me.
Id be heading out the door to catch the bus and Mom would say something like "Estoy haciendo chicharos hoy, asi que ya tu sabes." (Im making chicharos today, just so you know.) And then I'd spend the day worrying about having to sit in front of a bowl filled with green goo. Not to mention the ensuing ramifications.
You see, on chicharo night I was always served first. Mom would fill my bowl, set it on the table and make me sit down before anyone else in an attempt to get me eat at least a bit of the porridge. I would in turn just basically sit there wtaching TV out of the corner of my eye with the bowl of steaming porridge in front of me untouched.
After a little while everyone would sit down at the table, their portions of the green stuff would be served and eaten, and then the other courses would be served. I of course, would immediately dive into the palomilla steak and the platanitos or tostones. I remember I would even eat the white rice entirely - something I still dont do to this day - in an attempt to get a respite from eating the chicharos which still sat there on my place setting without so much as a spoon mark.
After everyone was done with their meals, Mom would start picking up the empty plates from the table. She set the china in the sink, start rinsing them off, getting them ready for the full dishwashing tretament. While still in front on me sat the full bowl of now ice cold chicharos. If you dont eat chicharos while still hot they tend to get this crusty coating all over the top. A dry layer of hardening chicharos floating on there like an ice cap.
When the dishes were finally done, Mom would come over to the table, examine the crusty coated full bowl of green chicharos still sitting in front of me and frown.
"No te has comido los chicharos?" she would ask.
"No, Mami. I havent eaten them yet."
"Do you plan on eating them?" she would ask again.
"Mami, Im so full. I cant eat them. Estoy lleno."
"Are you sure you're not going to eat your chicharos?"
"Yes, Mami. I cant possibly eat another bite. Im really really full."
"So, you arent going to eat the chicharos I made, then, right?"
I would give her my hurt puppy dog face while shaking my head ever so slightly.
"Bueno, if you're not going to eat them..." She would then pick up the bowl of ice cold, green crusted topped porridge stand there in front of me and ask if I was absolutely sure I wasnt going to eat the chicharos. I'd say no again and then she would pour the entire contents of the bowl on my head. A whole bowl of green split pea porridge with small chunks of potatoes and malanga and calabaza and whatever other vegetable she put in that thing slowly oozing down my hair and face and neck.
It may seem a little harsh, I know. But that's my Mom. She had raised her six younger sisters the same way. My sister also got the same treatment. As did my cousins if they were fortunate enough to sit at our table.
There would be no waste at our home. None. My Mom's days of ration cards and scrounging and bartering and begging and doing without were left behind the moment she left castro's Cuba. If my family had to leave a country so that their children would not only be free but well fed, then her children were damn well going to eat every single little morsel of food on their plates.
And the funny thing is that, now, as an adult, I will sometimes call my mother and say "Mami, por que no me haces un buen potaje de chicharo?" And I know she'll be smiling at the other end of that phone line.
"Claro, mijo," she'll say. "Ill make you some chicharos."
And she wont have time to slop them over my head 'cause they'll be gone in a flash.
Gracias, Mami. For everything you have given me. For my gentle nature. For my understanding of life. For not raising me as a momma's boy. For your sacrifices and for your unbelievable patience. For this love of family. Im not only here in this world because you brought me into it, but I am a better person for your having raised me. I love you, Mami.
Posted by Val Prieto at May 8, 2005 08:49 AM
Comments
Gad, that was great! A mother of my heart. I'm going to adopt yours. Plus, she is very beautiful. My mother was very beautiful, physically. I never got to see her much as a child, and by the time I did get to be around her, there was an awful lot missing. She had an inner beauty that everyone but me loved. I just hope that her next life is far kinder to us both.
Posted by: Valerie at May 8, 2005 09:17 AM
Beautiful!
Posted by: wyguy at May 8, 2005 09:42 AM
Val please extend a very Happy Mothers Day to your Mom from all of who read your posts. You are a lucky son.
Posted by: River Rat at May 8, 2005 09:43 AM
Felicidades, Abuelita.
Happy Mother's Day to you all!
Posted by: Amanda at May 8, 2005 10:07 AM
Val, you have a beautiful mom. Why is that all of our Moms in the old times looked like movie sirens? say hello to her in my name in this special day.
Posted by: CB at May 8, 2005 03:50 PM
She's beautiful! Tell her she has raised a fine son who is now touching many lives. Happy Mom's Day!
Posted by: FL Mom at May 8, 2005 06:56 PM
Great story. My grandmother always tried to get me to eat Malanga. I never wanted to try it. She recently died. I think I'm going to order Malanga next time I go out to eat "Cubiche" food.
Posted by: Fishfan at May 8, 2005 09:34 PM
I LAUGHED UNTIL I CRIED
Val, my sister used to sit there with liver on her plate until the meal was over, crying if Dad got angry with her. With me it was beets or spinach (but, oh boy, when Mom found the recipe for creamed spinach, life was devine). Your description of those days is so lovely, but sweetly written, that it must bring back a similar memory to almost everyone who reads it.
But, my younger son, Howard, would point and scream for everything on the breakfast table, while refusing to eat his oatmeal. The level of his scream was mind-bending. One day the screaming was too much for me. I picked up the bowl of oatmeal and put it upside down on his head. He sat there, mouth agape, looking at me while the milk and oatmeal ran down his face, and dripped from his eyebrows. I can still see that look on his face in "my mind's eye." It has always been a priceless memory.
He passed away two weeks ago at the age of 41, very sudden and unexpected. You know how I feel right at this moment, I'm sure.
Posted by: howarde at May 9, 2005 02:11 AM
Thanks so much for your kind words, all. Mom really appreciated your comments as Amanda translated them for her.
gracias.
Howard,
I know Ive told you before, but I am so incredibly sorry for the loss of your son. My sincerest condolences, my friend. Que Dios lo bendiga.
Posted by: Val Prieto at May 9, 2005 09:41 AM
How strange that you always call my a picker eater and when I obviously learned from the best. Anyway having lived with Abuela for 4 years I feel like she raised me too, with the same tough love she raised everyone else. Although at times we would argue or upset each other, I love her more that words can explain. By the way what a beautiful picture of my abuelita.
Posted by: Maura at May 9, 2005 04:34 PM
So, not a fan of split pea soup at the time, eh? My wife is Irish, and we get it regularly. I developed a taste for it, but the kids, well, they have their ups and downs... Throw in some fresh-baked bread, and it's a whole different story!
Thanks for telling us of what obviously is a cherished memory!
Oh, and remember: Che is also the "poster child" of Army Special Forces... *toothy grin*... Seems fitting, eh? Karma in a Green Beret...
Posted by: Sgt. B. at May 10, 2005 02:15 PM
Val:
I understand exactly. I can't remember how many times que me pucieron el plato de sombrero. I still hate chicharos though. I think that's why most of us Cubans are so solid. It's not the food as much as the love that our moms dished out along with it.
This is my first post. I have truly found a home among patriots. See you at Cuba Nostalgia.
Posted by: mojoman at May 10, 2005 04:35 PM