¡Viva México! Bringing Our Recent Trip Home--and Into the Kitchen

Alebrijes 

 “Este vestido me hace acordar de mi mamá…” I’m in a store in Oaxaca City, Mexico, looking at myself in wearing one of the many embroidered dresses, and telling the saleswoman, who’s concerned about my tears, that it reminds me of my mom.

My whole life, my mom talked about her time in Mexico—about the ubiquitous art—from figures like the alebrijes pictured here, to pottery,  silver jewelry, embroidery, and, of course, the huge variety of culinary offerings. My mom often braided my long hair with a ribbon and told me that was how the young girls in Mexico did it. Her paintings of Mexico, of a market scene and of a Day of the Dead celebration hang on my walls. Some of her many Mexican dresses from decades ago—as well as her Mexican jewelry—are in my home as well.

I fell in love with Mexico on my first visit, which was in  high school, during a summer vacation, when I visited for three weeks with my Mamaroneck High School Spanish teacher, Mrs. Rosa Andrews, and two classmates. We traveled by bus from Mexico City to San Miguel de Allende (where my father had lived), and then to Taxco and finally to Acapulco. At the time, I swore I would return to live there.

Since that time, I've had the pleasure of visiting on several occasions, mostly universities and conferences for work. I gave charlas (talks) and workshops to teachers about the teaching of English. 

But back to Oaxaca--and this recent Mexico trip...and bringing it home! 

Following the belief that the best way to get to know any destination is through the people, the markets, and the food. And so, I took a couple of food tours (more on that—and my latest idea—to come) and a cooking class in Puerto Escondido. The best was being able to bring it all home by recreating what I had learned. So, once we were back, I planned a dinner. 

Hibiscus Margarita 

First came the menu: I designed it based on what we enjoyed, to have a mix of colors and flavors, kept in mind the preferences of guests, alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, and of course a great finish.

Second came my prep list: As always, I made a day-by-day plan (starting five days before) of what I could do (in between work!) to get everything set up. 

Nopalitos (Cactus) and Beans  

Mole Chicken and Red Rice 

Then came the setting the scene: Using colorful tablecloths, floral-printed napkins, and fresh flowers, I set up a buffet table with the plates, silverware, and napkins. Another folding table was set up as the bar. This was the best way I could economize on space; guests could serve themselves and find a seat. 

Partial view of the Buffet

Finally  came the photos: Using, as so many of us do, my fridge as a living photo album, I printed my favorites, and attached them to the door.

My "slide show" Fridge with Mexico Photos

 

Hope you’ll get some ideas from this. I’ve shared my mom’s Mexican cookie recipe below. Thanks for reading—and please share as you see fit, and of course let me know if you have any questions!

Love always,

Arlen

Dinner Title: Regreso a Mexico (Return to Mexico)

·      Agua Jamaica Margaritas (Hibiscus Margaritas)
·       Beer + Wine
·       Lemon Water and Sparkling Water

 

Guacamole  + Totopos—and carrots and bell peppers

Corn, Tomato, and Jalapeño Salsa
Queso Oaxaqueño  
Salsa Verde 

·       Mole Chicken + Fresh Tortillas
Nopalitos (Cactus) with Tomatoes and Onions
Beans—with Hoja Santa
Mexican Red Rice 

      Ensalada + Jalapeño Dressing

·       Mexican Chocolate Brownies
Sonia’s Mexican Chocolate Cookies

          Fresh Fruit Salad  

 

Sonia’s Mexican Chocolate Slice-and-Bake Cookies Recipe

 Arlen Gargagliano

New to the chocolate-meets-spice trend? Thanks to my mom, I was introduced to that combo many moons ago. She made these cookies for decades, starting when I was a little girl. This combination of spices leads to rich chocolate flavor with a sparky finish! Of course you can turn up the heat, if you’d like.   What’s nice about this recipe is the make-ahead feature: you can form the dough into logs, refrigerate—even freeze—and then slice them—and bake them--whenever you’re up for these sweet treats (and oh, did I mention they make the house smell fabulous?!).  Another great part of this cookie, aside from the taste, is the longer-term planning: The dough logs can be frozen for up to a month. To store, wrap the plastic-covered logs tightly  before freezing.  I usually thaw them in the refrigerator overnight prior to baking.

 

 Makes: About 40 cookies

 

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 cup  cocoa powder

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/4 teaspoon fine salt

8 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 stick), at room temperature

1/2 cup packed light brown sugar

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1 large egg, at room temperature

1/2 teaspoon excellent-quality vanilla extract

 

1.       Whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, cinnamon, cayenne, and salt in a medium bowl to break up any lumps; set aside.

2.       Place the butter and sugars in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment and beat on medium speed until lightened in color and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Stop the mixer and scrape down the sides of the bowl and the paddle with a rubber spatula.

3.       Return the mixer to medium speed, add the egg and vanilla, and beat until just incorporated. Stop the mixer and scrape down the sides of the bowl and the paddle with the rubber spatula.

4.       Turn the mixer to low speed and slowly add the reserved flour mixture. Mix until just incorporated.

5.       Turn the dough out onto a clean work surface and divide it in half. Roll each portion into a log about 1 1/2 inches in diameter. Wrap each log tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate until firm, at least 2 hours and up to 3 days.

6.       When ready to bake the cookies, heat the oven to 350°F. Get sheet pans and parchment paper ready (or you can use a Silpat for baking).

7.       Take out the dough logs from the refrigerator, remove the plastic wrap, and slice the dough into 1/4-inch-thick rounds. Place the rounds about 1/2 inch apart on  2  parchment (or Silpat) covered baking sheets (about 20 cookies per sheet).

8.       Bake both sheets for 6 minutes. Rotate the baking sheets front to back and top to bottom and bake until the edges of the cookies are firm but the tops are still soft, about 6 to 7 minutes more.

9.       Place the baking sheets on wire racks and let cool for 5 minutes.  Using a flat spatula, transfer the cookies to the wire racks to cool—though they’re fabulous warm!

10.   Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 3 days.

 

 

 

In the Kitchen with my Ancestors

Sicilia, non vi ho visti tutti, ma mi sono innamorata. E ritorneremo...

As of late last night, I’m back in New York, and I don’t even know what time zone I’m in.  My body is in one, my mind is—perhaps—in another. I run by the library and see two elderly gentlemen sitting on a bench near my path. Wait—maybe they’re my age? One is Black, one is White. They are drinking cans of something. Beer? They both turn to wave their unoccupied hands at me. They have similar waves.

I say good morning, though buongiorno is still in my throat; I pass them, and head towards Davenport Park. 

The beauty of travel—one of the beauties of travel—is that it helps you see things with new eyes. I look at the water, this time it’s the Long Island Sound, and not the Tyrrhenian Sea—whose warm temperatures, glass transparency, and sparkling turquoise embraced me just a couple of  days ago. Still, this morning, I’m standing before another sparkling body of water that I admire. The sky is clear. The sun is bright. I love this place, too. 

As I continue my run, my mind flashes scenes, people, dishes—the sounds—of Sicily. I imagine telling my parents, especially my dad, all about it: the opera singer on the street of Palermo, the gestures, the food, the vendors, the buildings, the sea, the sounds, the Sicilian expressions we learned.  I want to tell him, “ Now I really get it! I get you! I understand you more now.” 

I whisper the words aloud. My tears sting. 

Images of the markets also flash through my mind. Bold, strong colors. Vendors calling me to try the cherries, figs, watermelon, grapes. The vegetables—deep purple eggplants, bright bell peppers, the shapely cucuzza: Italian squash. And then there’s the prepared dishes. The pasta, pizza, and of course,  caponata: the roasted eggplant and tomato-based dish that was a staple in my home growing up, and everywhere here in Sicily—in slight variations. I think about the focus of the Mediterranean Studies Symposium, "Feeding the Mediterranean: Culinary (Re-) Inventions, Legacy, and Hospitality," and about the presentation I made, in which I shared my family's legacy: their interpretation of their culinary traditions. I now recognize that until I visited and saw—felt—all first hand, I didn't realize the extent to which the heritage of Sicily was sewn into my family's blanket. Beyond Sicilian hospitality—all-welcoming, loving, warm—it’s the feeling of belonging that was gifted to us—to my son and me. 

Now my father's voice whispers; "I told you this, Sweetheart. I knew you would love it all." 

I've finished my loop, and I'm heading back home now. While I’m running, I plan my menus—and how I’ll replicate, or attempt to replicate, the colors and flavors we sampled. I want to, as my parents did upon their return to New York from their visit to Sicily many years before, boast both the flavors and the presentation of the foods there. 

I’ve vowed to study Italian more, to keep more in touch with relatives and friends in Sicily, practice presenting my food and making the dishes I so admired, and grasping the memories so that I can pull them up as needed.  And, of course, to return—with my daughter and husband. In the meantime, I recognize: I'm in the kitchen with my ancestors. 

Sicilia, non vi ho visti tutti, ma mi sono innamorata. E ritorneremo...

Bringing the Colors--and Flavors--Back to New York

Home Fresh Tomato Recreation 

Caponata--and Some Cheeses

2024 Comes In

Paul Cézanne's Pines and Rocks 

“Notice the brush strokes—how he uses space, how nothing is wasted,” my mother says to me. I’m nine years old, and we’re at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. We’re looking Paul Cézanne’s Pines and Rocks, but move to The Bather, and she points out the lines of model’s muscular leg, and the color palette of the background.  “No wasted space,” she reiterates. This was to become her mantra in art, and in life.

In my memory, it’s just my mother and I walking through the museum. Today, I’m on my own.

My mother’s voice comes through me as I admire Van Gogh, Picasso, Gauguin, Seurat, Monet, Matisse, and Chagall. Their work swims into my eyes and triggers a pool of memories. 

Marc Chagall's I and the Village

I smile at the playfulness of Marc Chagall (I and the Village), and hear my mother talking to me about artists’ phases, stages, and senses of humor. She often spoke about process, and taking time to explore different subjects as well as styles of painting and drawing. In retrospect I realize that this—taking time to explore and try out—was also part of her modus operandi. I can see a variety of style in her paintings, illustrations, sketch books, and subjects.

I flash back to her trying to teach me how to translate what I’m looking at onto paper in the form of sketching.    Now I try to ingest in all the images I see, and transfer them into words.

I stop in front of Rousseau’s The dream.  I relish the personal space I have at that moment to approach the canvas, and focus. I remember my mother telling me that though he never went to Mexico (as he apparently claimed—thereby entitling his “Mexican pictures”) self-taught Henri Rousseau, was able, from his home in France, and thanks to his rich imagination and frequent trips to the Paris botanical gardens, to translate jungle images from his head onto his canvas.

Tears start to sting as I hear my mother’s voice again; she is proud of my recollection of the artists and their styles, her lessons, and for my taking the time to visit the museum, and ponder all. No wasted time.

Sonia O. Lisker Gargagliano 

I consider my mother’s “Mexican pictures,” which she created after spending time in Mexico—before I was born. I look at her brush strokes. And I can’t help but  notice in her paintings, many of which surround me at home, that there is no wasted space.

And so now in mid-January, we welcome 2024—and consider what we’ve done, what lies ahead, both anticipated and not.

Last year I had several goals: to dance flamenco, try new recipes—to read more, write more, and learn Italian. I still need to work on all, and I add to the list.

I can hear my father now, telling me—as he always did—that I have to take chances. (He was referring to talents and skills, not skydiving nor bungi jumping!)  Taking chances is on my list. No wasted time.

Life, after all, is precious.  

 

All Clear

 

 

The Day of And a Few Days Later

“Well, it’s like this all the time in New Delhi!” an older woman said to me last Wednesday, in Midtown Manhattan, waiting at the crosswalk. I had noticed her cane, her stance, and her lean on the mailbox prior to the change of the walk sign at the cross walk, and so I had asked her if she was okay. She said she was, and, in typical NYC fashion, that was the end of our exchange. The light turned green, and we separated.   

This was on the day that NYC was blanketed in sepia, the day the wildfire smoke hit the city. Dazed and masked, people twirled, phones in hand, recording and marveling at the scene. Words like “apocalyptic, smoky, orange,” echoed through the throngs on Fifth Avenue.

Fast forward to three days later. The sky is blue, the air seems fresh, and yes, it appears to be all clear—at least around here.

We are always looking for an all clear. Or, perhaps, in my case, I’m also looking for clarity—and hope I offer the same. Thinking about relationships, work, stories, and trips, I consider that all clear is synonymous with a go ahead, or that we can proceed in a positive way. I'm also equating all clear with clarity. 

The Clarity of Reflection 

I can’t help but remember a student I had at Concordia College, so many years ago. Lorenzo, from Puerto Rico, came to Concordia to play volleyball and, like many on his team, also to learn English.

At that time, I had a habit of asking my students, “Is it clear?” after explaining something in my ESL class. (Wait—maybe I still say that!)

Lorenzo frequently responded, with a grin, “As clear as mud, teacher!”

He chided me, and was often quite the jokester, but sometimes he was on target: my explanations often required a second round. I take that recognition with me, and try—whether talking to family and friends or students and teachers—to be clear. It’s a skill I’m still working on.

But back to last Wednesday, I walked up to the Museum of Modern Art, where I had decided I wanted to revisit Georgia O’Keeffe’s exhibit. I watched as people stopped in front of one work or another, saw them observe, listened to their commentary, accolades, and more.

An older bespectacled gentleman with tanned skin, a white beard, and a straw fedora, came to a full stop in front of “Evening Star.”  He stood, hands behind his back, and gazed, deeply at one painting, and then the others in that series.   

From Georgia O'Keeffe--One of the Many Currently at MOMA 

I wanted to ask him what he was thinking when he looked at them.  Was a meaning clear to him?  What was clear to him?

But he moved on as a young couple with a toddler moved in front. 

As I continued to walk around the museum, my thoughts of clarity continued. I considered how clarity comes in different realms: art, communication, movement, music, and another one of my favorites, flavors.

Recently I found clarity in a dish I made: Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Since it was quite well received,  I decided to explore variations on the theme. A few nights later, I made pork chops with an orange sauce that somewhat emulated the previously-made lemon-infused dish. The result? Another sunny, and tasty citrus-themed plate (served this time with broccoli and wine-caramelized onions, and roast potatoes). 

 Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Crispy Pork Chops with a Fresh Orange Sauce

I enjoy clarity of flavor as much as I enjoy clarity of explanations, communication, and more. I find clarity when I run, when I cook, when I dance, when I draw, and when I write. 

Today as I ponder the message of all clear and clarity, I think of the bold, dazzling colors of nature that boast their individuality, yet work and grow together. 

 

Almost Spring's Big Dig

Mom and a Storyboard

“Look at her!” my friend Sus declares as we uncover photos of my mom.

I’ve found the black and white photos of my mother at work. She was one of the first female art directors on the “mad men” scene of Madison Avenue. I heard the story so many times, about how I was almost born at Y&R (Young & Rubicam) but how she just barely made it to Flowers and Fifth Hospital—after a quick stop to pick up a nightgown in Bloomingdale’s—and then on to the hospital to give birth to me. 

I go through photos—there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. They date back to the time my mom was little, posing on the Boardwalk in front of her parents’ home in Brighton Beach. Posing…they were always posing.

Words are tangled in my throat as I peruse her sketchbooks, and flash back to the times she sketched at parties, when curious guests couldn’t help but come by and ask what she was doing, look over her shoulder, admire her fluid intake and translation of the scenes around her.

I was not like the guests; her sketching made me uncomfortable.

Now, as I leaf through the dozen or so sketchbooks, I have an uneasiness mixed with pride and regret that I didn’t enjoy her drawing—while she was drawing. Why did her sketching bother me? Why didn’t I accept it more readily? Why wasn’t I proud then? 

Mom's Sketches in Spain 

As some of you may know, now over two years ago, we moved from a house into an apartment. At that big downsizing time, I took a lot of my old photos—okay not only mine, but those from and of my parents (their ex-spouses!), grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents-in-law, siblings, kids…well, you get the picture. Tons of photos! They were packed into large Rubbermaid tubs and put into storage.

One of my new year’s resolutions was to go through, sort, keep or toss: my big dig. And so, it’s begun.

It’s amazing how many blurry photos, how many duplicates, how many “unknowns,” and how many trees and sunsets were captured. And as I sift, I try to identify criteria for saving.

My criteria has yet to be defined. I do know that I’m not going to scan them all; I want to keep the “hard copies.” Not sure what I’ll do with them, but I’m enjoying going through them…remembering so very many moments.

In another box, I’ve found letters. Those I’m loathe to toss…at least some of them. Especially words from people, like my parents, who are no longer on this earth with us. I've put those aside for now. I'll read them all. Eventually.   

This all comes back to my kitchen. As many of you may also know, food is another way I keep people ever-present. Menu planning is something I enjoy daily: I think about who’s going to eat it, what the weather is like, what’s available, and what people might be craving.

I open up a recipe box, and look for one of our Christmas Eve classics: The orange Jell-O mold, complete with shredded carrots and crushed pineapple, which she always made in the shape of a Christmas tree.

I never thought I’d ever make it. Now I pull out the recipe, and look for the pan that it will set in. 

 

 

And Just Like That, It's Soup time in December

     I don’t mind when the sun paints my face, with thick broad gentle strokes, forcing me to recognize it, which I do.  It reminds me that I should focus on the now, the present.

     At this very moment, it’s all about today. Focusing on the elements around—the feelings, paired with sounds, sights and smells, has a balancing effect. My mind is racing elsewhere: thinking of the books I’m listening to, the wonderful big band music I saw and heard on Friday night, the headlines slapped across this morning’s newspaper, the dinner I will make tonight, the work I need to do, the nostalgia for family no longer here, one that profoundly infuses me this time of year. The elements, and the rhythm of my feet below, ground me and push me forward as I run.

     My mind goes back, as it so often does, to the recipes. The weather’s chill has me thinking of soup. And though I could rifle through my collection of saved NYT cooking recipes, or the many books that I still have (even after unloading hundreds haver the move!), I am set on one: carrot soup from Moosewood Cookbook. 

     And this is what brings my after-run steps to my book shelf, and right over to one cookbook in particular, to a page I have marked from long ago.

     

     Moosewood Cookbook, the original, was one of my first on-my-own cookbooks.What I mean by that is that I always had my mom’s recipes, yet I searched for those recipes I could adopt and call my own. Moosewood, at the time, was my great resource. 

    Moosewood was also the first cookbook I ever endeavored making just about everything from. The book itself, now decades later—food stained and a bit unsteady in keeping all the pages together— represents a period of time, my twenties, when I expressed a lot of my independence and creative energy through food. (Wait, am I still doing that?!) 

     This carrot soup offers the balance of two flavors I love combining:  sweet and salty. But as I sit to write this blog, I recognize that you might not share my passion for cooking. Still, I’m guessing you probably share my joy of eating.  It’s funny how when I teach, I touch on the topic of food and almost all my students have a positive reaction; though they are still struggling with English, their second, third, and even fourth language, food remains a first language. They wax nostalgic about their grandma’s cooking, dishes that say “home” to them. Food is their common ground…our common ground. This is why I still say if we could just all sit down and share a meal, we might have peace in this world.

       In the meantime, now and in the next year, I will continue my ever-expanding exploration of dishes (so many recipes, so little time!), as well as travelling, dancing, reading, writing, teaching, and of course enjoying the many meals I look forward to composing, creating, and consuming with family and friends. 

     With these thoughts, and this note, I wish you and yours lots of peace, and many many delicious soups and other dishes with loved ones during this holiday season, and in the year to come.

      

Carrot Soup Garnished with Roasted Apple, Toasted Almonds, and Parsley

 

 

In Walks September

 

“Is this the writing class?” A twenty-something, light brown-skinned woman asks  me in a slightly marked  accent as she steps into the doorway. “Can I come in?” she adds. It’s about 8:50, and class will begin at 9.

She’s slight, bespectacled, and smiling broadly, though I hear some nervousness in her voice. She sits right in the middle of the u-shaped  tables that face the front of the room. She’s the first of my 16 students to arrive.  I welcome her in, and she tells me she’s from Ecuador, from Cuenca.  I want to tell her that my son lived in Ecuador, but I save that.

“Yes! This is the writing class” I declare, and welcome her into the room. “Please tell me your name.”

“Alejandra,” She announces. “But you can please call me Alex.”

“Okay, Alex,” I say as I scan my roster and tell her, “My name is Arlen. And wow, Alex! You are the first to arrive!”

 “I like to be in time,” she proudly announces.

“I do, too!” I say.

Prior to that morning, I had seen all my forthcoming students' names on my roster, and considered how those names would “translate” into actual people, and how these same type-written names will look differently on that page after today, the first day of class.  

It’s the same feeling I’ve had for years: the anticipation, the excitement, and even some of the nervousness on the first day of school. All of my white board markers are ready, I’ve written the date and my plan on the board, along with a “Welcome!” I’ve played with the colors of the markers so that—I think—the board is visually pleasing. I like to alternate between colors, at least a bit. I’ve got my folders with handouts, and my pads with paper, in case someone needs paper.

Several students follow Alex's lead and enter the classroom. I welcome them in,  and ask their names, trying to commit them all to memory.  They unpack their bags, reveal new notebooks, pens, and sharpened pencils. We are all poised, ready—and so we start a light conversation.

“Probably some will be late today, but let’s get started!”  I declare. They nod, albeit nervously—not knowing what to expect.

And so, it’s September. A time I’ve always embraced as a new beginning. Whether it’s in my classroom—or my kitchen—it’s a time to start something new, I think.

I play with my lesson plans, just like I play with my food. I try to find something new—something that will inspire. Something that sparks interest. Something that will resonate with my students. 

At home, I look for something that will resonate with my dinner guests.

Appetizers for an End-of-Summer Dinner 

For now, I’m still enjoying the farmers’ market bounty. Tomatoes are still out. I’ve even got some green beans from the community garden that Seth, my husband, tends.

I put all the ideas together, and come up with a fresh version of perhaps a dish I’ve enjoyed before. Building—or scaffolding (as we say in the ESL teaching world) so that one idea or dish flows into another. 

The beach is still fresh and welcoming. Pumpkins are out.  September has walked in. 

 

Living Art at the Beach

Pumpkins on Display