Growing up my mother kept her white rice in an old green tin cracker can. It was dented and scratched and inside a white and blue tea cup - it's handle broken. White rice was a staple in our home. This was the 80s before white rice was deemed bad.
I'd watch my mother in the kitchen. Admiring the ritual of her rice making. Bringing out the tin from underneath the stovetop cabinet. Scooping out 2 - 3 cups of rice and pouring it into a bowl, sifting through the grains and picking out the discolored ones. She'd fill the bowl with cold water and rinse the rice before cooking. My mother never used a measuring cup for the water - her eye was her instrument. And just as the water came to a boil, she'd cover the caldero placing a match in between the lid and the pot to let the steam out.
Depending what kind of rice she was making, the room took on a different scent. But whatever it was, it was comforting. It was home. It was the meal I could always count on. We ran out of many things between compras but never rice. There was always a pillow sack of rice around.
We could eat (and we usually did) white rice every day of the week and not eat the same meal twice. Rice and beans were typical - they were a poor person's meal to keep a family full. My mother made:
White rice with beans - red or pink;
White rice with spam;
White rice with a fried egg;
White rice with salchichas;
White rice with chicken mixed in (arroz con pollo)
White rice with stewed or fried chicken on the side;
White rice with pork chops;
White rice with tomato sauce and other ingredients for yellow rice; and
White rice transformed into arroz con gandules (my personal favorite).
As a teenager I worked in a rectory and the cook made white rice often too. But she made it differently than my mother. It was something new and exciting. (Yes, I am still talking about rice.) The cook tossed half an onion in the pot and used chicken broth instead of water. And sometimes she'd add green peas or red peppers. It was the best white rice I ever had. I could eat it plain and usually asked for a second helping. And on nights when I wasn't hungry, the cook would look hurt and beg me to "have a little more."
Norrin is like me. He could eat rice every day of the week. I don't make it everyday like my mother. Though I have to say I make some damn good white rice. (I do feel guilty because I tell myself I should make brown rice. We both like brown rice too but it's just not the same.) Now that it's fall and the weather is cooler, I'll make rice more often. I'll spend Sunday afternoons making (red or pink) beans to go with it. The scents of my childhood - cilantro, onions, garlic and peppers - will linger in the air. I am passing along my memories to Norrin and I hope giving him something to remember me by.
Yesterday Rachel, aka The Art Muse, shared a picture and post about tostones for Hispanic Heritage Month,"...of the things I could have written about to cover this month, look what I chose. Tostones." My mother made tostones too. And I understand Rachel's love affair with them.
Food is often our first connection to our heritage - whether it's white rice, red beans or tostones. The food we grow up with are the things that keep us close to our culture and to our childhood.
What is the food of your childhood?
And if white rice is a staple in your home - join the fun on Instagram and share where you store it?
I keep my rice in a big plastic container - it used to be filled with pretzels. No dented cracker can for me. Where do you keep your rice?
Labels: Atypical Familia, Atypical Mami, Food We Love, Hispanic Heritage Month, Memories, My Childhood, White Rice
