¡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.  

 

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 

Mid-July Contemplations and Colors

“It’s like we are all on a bus,” Silvia begins to tell me her theory of life, and death. "And then," she continues, "often without warning, the bus makes a stop, someone gets off. Still, the bus continues on, stopping from time to time.” 

Silvia’s life analogy resonates with me now more than ever, as it seems too many people in my life are getting off the bus, and, at this point, I can only see them in my memories.  

Silvia was an ESL student of mine at Concordia many, many moons ago. Like so many—if not all—of my students, she taught me way more than I could have ever taught her. Silvia introduced me to Pedro Almodóvar; I believe we saw, Mujeres al Borde de un Ataque de Nervios (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown)” together. It was my first Almodóvar movie, and I was blown away by his humor, his cleverness, and his irreverence. (Of course, I loved hearing the Spanish, too.) 

Silvia also gave me a copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s El Amor en los Tiempos del Cólera (Love in Time of Cholera). This book has made the move from our house, and survived with an inscription: Este libro y mi amistad, para Arlen, para Siempre –This book, and my friendship, for Arlen, forever. …And signed it. On this steamy and stormy mid-July day, I pull the book off my shelf and make a note to myself: it’s time to reread it. 

Also thinking about timing, food, reunions, and colors. More specifically, I’m especially focused on colors on my table. Some from the flowers that Seth brings from the community garden he so carefully tends, and others, from food. Long ago, I became aware of the importance of presentation of food. I learned a lot from Harry—of Harry’s Sauteuse—who wouldn’t let a plate go out unless it was garnished; parsley, for example, (his most popular of garnishes), had to be artfully placed on the dish. 

I also learned a lot from my mom, who was all about the creation of a plate/platter, as well as attention to detail. Maybe it was her artist’s eye that transposed a canvas, so to speak, onto a plate. Actually, it wasn't just the food and the table. All aspects of her meals and dinner parties were carefully choregraphed: the guest lists, who sat next to whom, the menus, the wines, the presentation, and of course, the music.  

July Garden Bounty 

Purple Potato Salad 

Coleslaw

Sautéed Shrimp in White Wine and Pepper Flakes 

Color on a plate, and a combination of textures—and of course flavors—that all complement each other, is something I still strive for and gain great happiness from. Yes, my ol’ dear Mambo 64 customers know I loved combining these key elements. 

These days, I’m combining at home—so when I can mix the deep blue/purple of a Peruvian potato, or the cream-colored meat of new potatoes, and contrast it with bright yellow of mango (yes—in a potato salad!) I do it. And yes, my friends, I do try to keep it more local for the most part, which is so much easier to do this time of year. And even the simple fresh green beans, cucumber, tomato, fresh herbs, and scallions (purple ones) radishes—and much more, topped with a sprinkle of fresh basil leaves, still dazzles.  

I guess it’s the freshness and immediate gratification of food –admiring it before devouring it—that still gets me. But it’s not too different from the way my body reacts to a beautiful scene—wild flowers, sunsets, a new baby connecting with a parent—sibling, or grandparent. 

Pre-Yoga Class View of Bryant Park 

Last Wednesday, when I was walking by Bryant Park in Midtown Manhattan, I saw a different kind of connection. There was a yoga class going on, and several hundred people were participating. As the teacher directed, they reached up to the sky, they all stretched up, in unison, and the sea of arms—not unlike an Esther Williams swimming movie, only more colorful as far as shades of skin. The collective movement was evocative. There they were, all different people, all different ages, moving in the same way, reaching for the same goal. It was an illustration of togetherness—of human contact positively and constructively achieved. 

I walked away from that scene, got to meet my son for a quick coffee,  and headed to my flamenco workshop. Still, a few thoughts about that Bryant Park yoga scene, along with some others from recent days, have stayed with me. I’m sharing four of them with you here: 

 1) Life is so crazy short. We need to take care of ourselves, and our loved ones, as best we can. So much is out of our control, so we need to foster the things we can. 2) We need to express our love, enjoy our loved ones, and celebrate what and  when we can. 

 3) It’s important to speak out about what we believe in, but equally important to listen to others, and hear where they’re coming from.

 4) There’s so much to live and learn—languages, books, music, art, dance, recipes—ah, places to visit! People to meet! 

My list grows in all different directions and I hear both of my parents’ voices encouraging me to continue on all fronts. As they would often say, “If we’re lucky, we keep learning—always.”

I wish you all days rich of joy and laughter, the courage, confidence and assistance you need to work to change things that you are unhappy with, and the opportunity to find happiness in learning,  and living,  many kinds of experiences.

With love always,

Arlen