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My Grandmother's Food
There she was late 60s with her hair in a bun. In her hand a wooden spoon which she just took out of the frying pan. She approached the spoon to her nose. “not quite” she mumbled as she returned the eggplant to the pan. Fried eggplants of my grandmother. She knew they were my favorite. She tumbled the eggplants on the pan. It smelled like home, they began to turn gold and then my grandmother turn the flame off. In a dish, absorbing paper and all the eggplant slices perfectly gold. My face turned mischievous as my tiny finger reached for the dish on the counter I could barely reach on my tip toes. “don’t, you little devil, wait for them to cool down” my grandmother said, as she lifted me from the floor and put me in the counter next to where she was cooking. “what would you like?” she asked me. I grinned and that was enough. She knew very well. Even to this day she still does. I was the best cooking helper, passed the sugar, measured the flour, stood on the counter and reached for things that were too high for her. Pouring sugar on another pan, began to melt, sweet caramel. She swirled and with that swirl music came to my ears. Was I listening well? The life she lived in Cuba emanated from her pores. Danzón no. 2. Dancers and beaches. Fruits and rhythm. As sweet as sugar from the cane. Taste she said, as very thin layer of a cracked piece of hard melted sugar came near my face. Was hard but the taste. That was undoubtedly an experience. The first time I ever tasted caramel. I’m making flan. She said as my smile covered my whole face. To this day my favorite dessert. The Spanish way. So many things were in my grandmother’s food. There laid history, war, love, strength. She was born in Barcelona and left to Paris because of the civil war, then to Cuba because of the World War and then to Mexico because of Castro. She found love in Mexican lands, love she carries with her every day, comes out of her pores alongside with her willing to live, her enjoyment of the little things. The flan was in the stove, aside me, also aside me my grandmother. A wooden spoon in her hand. She always lets me lick the spoon.
