Beans are a foundation of Mexican cooking, they accompany many, many dishes and a major component of many more. This recipe for Frijoles de la Oya (Whole Beans) is just like La Abuelita taught me to make them. With this recipe I am beginning a series on the building blocks of Mexican cooking, so that you have the tools to make a variety of incredible dishes. Once you have made beans this way, you will never consider using canned beans again. The difference in the quality and the flavor is astronomical.
From this recipe you can make re-fried beans, and the bean juice is also used for Enchiladas Rancheras. It is also the basis for Frijoles Borrachos (Drunken Beans). You can add whole beans to things like tacos and burritos you might otherwise use re-fried beans for, as a healthier option. I have a pot in my fridge most of the time and add them to Fajitas and Chile con Carne, the possibilities are endless. Another great way to eat them is in a bowl with just a little bit of chopped cilantro and maybe some grated queso cotija (Mexican dry cheese). They are packed with fiber and protein and a good source of potassium, calcium, and magnesium. Here is a link to an article on their nutrition. Frijoles de la Oya make a great addition to a healthy diet.
Frijoles de la Oya (Whole Beans)
1 part dried pinto beans to
3 parts water
When you bring the beans home from the store, there will be some broken beans, some that have shriveled up, and sometimes tiny hardened dirt clods. All of these will need to be found and removed for the best frijoles.
The best way I have figured out to do this is to pour the beans I intend to use into a pile on the table, then take a small section, about as much as I can fit in my hand, spread it out and pick out the undesirables. Then, pick up that section of beans and pass them back and forth between your hands to see any broken ones you may have missed. Too many broken beans make the bean juice thicken too much.
Place the sorted beans into a strainer and move on to the next section. This can be a tedious process, but it is worth it in your final product. I will often do this sorting process when I get home from the store and then separate one pot’s worth of sorted beans into bags. I buy in bulk, then have pre-portioned amounts to easily start a pot of beans whenever I want them.
Next rinse the beans in hot water until they are cleaned of dirt and the outside oil coating on the beans has mostly washed away. Stir the beans as you are rinsing them to get to all of them.
Combine the beans and water in a large pot, cover and heat on high, stirring occasionally until it comes to a boil. At this point a bunch of the beans will be floating on top. Add some cold water to the pot and the beans will drop back into the water.
Aside: La Abuelita taught me to bless the pot as I was adding the cold water, so I do. It is a great way to remember why I cook, and to ask that we will always have nutritious food. It is also a way that I continue her traditions and teach my son about the value they bring.
Once the water returns to a boil, add the salt and give it a stir. Put the lid back on and reduce the heat so that the pot continues to simmer gently for about another two hours. Stir every once in a while to make sure the beans don’t stick to the bottom.
Check to see if they are done by looking and tasting. If the beans are about twice their original size and there are a few that have split open, then they are done. The texture should be soft, but not mushy.
Serve whole beans with a little cilantro or cheese, add them to quesadillas, burritos, or many other dishes for fiber, protein and just wholesome goodness.
Note about pre-soaking:
I don’t pre-soak my beans and neither did La Abuelita. The process only saves about a half hour of cooking time, and it is extra fuss. I would be curious if anyone knows an actual benefit of the process, please let me know. The point is to begin the softening process for the beans, and to get rid of dirt and oil from the outside of the beans. Just wash them under hot water, and you’re done.
I would love to hear your thoughts and experiences with this recipe.
Have you ever been to summer camp as a family? I am talking about the kind where you stay in rustic cabins, do organized activities, and share communal meals. I took my multicultural family, we had a great time and learned a few things for next time. And there will so be a next time. If you haven’t thought about it, consider it. It was a beautiful experience. Read on for my musings about it, or just skip to the 10 Tips to Make Your Summer Camp Amazing.
We took a three day trek into the mountains for Peace Camp by the Modesto Peace Life Center. It was the first time I had participated in an organized camp since sixth grade. I grew up camping, but had gotten away from it with the demands of being a grown up and a husband who thinks roughing it is a nice hotel. Suffice it to say, it had been way too long since I had taken the time to recharge in the mountains. So when the opportunity came up, I jumped at the chance. I wasn’t expecting much, to be honest. I convinced my mom and son to come with me, so we packed our bags and off we went.
It was my son’s first time “camping” since he was three and he doesn’t remember it. Time passes so quickly with one thing and another and I just realized I am raising a city boy. Oh the horror! I was backpacking before I learned to walk.
Luckily he was enthusiastic, and had a great time. He gets a little freaked out about bugs in the house, so I hoped it would not be a problem. My little scientist decided that we were “in nature” which is their home and we were just visiting. He wasn’t bothered by any of the critters, to the point where he didn’t want me to sweep the spiders out of our cabin, although he was just fine when Grandma got rid of the dead mouse that we found there when we arrived.
It was really nice to not have to plan and organize everything, especially the food. I have also gotten citified enough that I really appreciated being able to shower. The people were incredibly warm and welcoming, and the activities were well organized. Many people really put effort into making us newbies feel comfortable and at home.
My friend, who was also there for the first time, said “It feels like we have found our tribe,” and she was right. I have lived in California’s Central Valley for nearly thirty years, (Gah, time flies!) and I am comfortably at home here, but have had a difficult time finding a community of people who truly share my views on the world. I have missed that, more than anything from my time living in a larger city. At this camp I encountered people of every age and many cultures and walks of life, all focused on true inclusion on an individual and a global level. It was a space where multiculturalism was embraced and lived.
Every person I met there had an interesting story and really thought about the world and the way they occupy it. I haven’t had that many stimulating conversations in ages, let alone concentrated over three days. The experience buoyed me in mind and spirit. I am excited to go back, in fact, I’ve already got next year blocked off on my calendar.
So, what did I learn from Peace camp?
I learned that I over-pack. OK, I knew that already, but I really did bring too much stuff. Next year I will not be so bogged down with stuff, now that I know more of what to expect. Being able to stay in a cabin and having all the food prepared takes such a huge burden off of camping. We brought enough snacks that we could have eaten fairly well all weekend, and never touched them. However, I was very happy that I brought sheets for the camp cots (protection from mouse droppings). I should have brought more warm clothes, it was just so hot down in the valley I couldn’t really believe it would be cold at night. I knew better, it’s not like I have never been to the mountains before! Luckily my mom also over-packs and brought an extra jacket.
My son spent hours upon hours playing with rocks and a creek and a few other kids. I renewed my resolve to get him outside more and to take more days in nature. Our family situation doesn’t make it easy, but we’ll work on making sure he has more unstructured time outdoors. I may have to schedule it. Anyone else see the irony in scheduling unstructured time?
I learned how much I had been longing for my tribe without even realizing it. This blog has been my way of connecting with others who live a multicultural life, but now I’ve found a space where I can go to meet such folks in real life. And that is a wonderful feeling.
10 Tips for an awesome Summer Camp
Do bring warm clothing for the evening. It gets cold in the mountains!
Sheets to cover camp cots make sleeping much nicer, even if you are using a sleeping bag.
Make sure to have a separate bag for shower stuff since it will be a trek from wherever you are sleeping. Keep the toiletries to a minimum: shampoo/conditioner, soap, toothpaste/brush, sunscreen, bug spray.
Bring several pairs of shoes that are easily cleaned. Dirt and mud happen. Closed toe will protect you from splinters and stubbed toes. Flip flops really don’t work!
Leave your electronics behind. If you have them with you, you will be tempted to use them.
Bring a camera that’s easy to carry with you if you want pictures of the experience. Moments that just happen make the best memories.
Don’t hide behind your camera so much that you don’t really join in on the fun.
Bring refillable water bottles that can hook on your belt and drink often.
Participate. Its the best way to get the most value out of summer camp. Look at the schedule on the first day and decide which activities you are going to join. Do something you have never done before, it’s a safe space to try new things since many others are new as well.
On the other hand, don’t pack your schedule so much that there is no time to just play. Let the kids play and let yourself play too.
Help. You will likely sign up for chores at the beginning. Show up on time and work enthusiastically. If you see something that needs doing, just do it. Make sure your kids help too. Depending on age they can help you with your chores or do their own. My son held the dustpan while I swept and helped clear the tables after meals. By next year he might be old enough to have his own chores.
Have you gone to summer camp as a family? Please share your story in the comments. If you haven’t I highly recommend it and will do my best to answer any questions you have.
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On Wednesday we celebrated Mexican Mother’s Day by taking flowers to the grave of my mother in law and cards and balloons to a couple of mother figures in our lives. It had been waaay to long since we had reached out to these wonderful ladies. We had allowed the everyday routine to get in the way of maintaining our connection. These two ladies provide a strong connection with my husband’s mother, they were both dear friends his whole growing up. Since she died, we have allowed ourselves to drift away from the incredibly tight knit and supportive community that he had been part of his whole life. And do you know what is even more shameful? Both of these ladies live within two blocks of our house. Yep, now that it’s our turn to be there for folks who have been there for our family for years, somehow the busyness of the everyday gets in the way. I am resolving to do better, to reach out to folks that mean something to my family much more often, to be a better friend.
So, now that today is American Mother’s Day, I have been thinking about my mother and how, even though I see her nearly every day, we are both so busy that we rarely connect in any kind of real way. Now often we are both busy with the small person who has become the center of our entire family’s universe and much of the time my mom is pursuing her passion for music.
For me, there is always more to do than can possibly be accomplished in any given day. Often, more often than I care to admit, those chores are allowed to take my attention from the people I really do want to spend quality time with. Or, I am so exhausted by all the day’s work that I don’t have the energy to make a meaningful connection when I do have the time. Then I end up with a backlog of chores that need to be done and neglected relationships. So, enough self-flagellation.
Today I am going to remember a few of the people who have been a mother figure in my life, those who have loved me warts and all. First, of course, is my mom. She projects a gentleness that is supported by a will of iron. When she thinks something is important, she is relentless. She often sacrifices the things that she does for herself so that she can be sure others are taken care of. My mother will also neglect such minor necessities like sleep to try to do it all. She is loving, even when taking one to task and does things for all of us in the family as well as thoughtful things for friends. If you need something, and she can do something about it, she will, often regardless of considerable inconvenience.
I learned from my mom to show up. She was at everything I ever did growing up. It never even occurred to me that my parents would not show up to cheer me on, even when I was doing things that they would not have chosen for me, such as my many experiments in religion. She also shows up for important events in the family and for friends, as naturally as if it takes no effort at all.
My Mother In Law
We moved into my in-law’s home very soon after we were married to take care of my father in law who was very ill. Mi suegra welcomed me and made me feel truly welcome in her home. In a small, suddenly crowded home, she made major efforts to let me claim my own space. She helped me learn Spanish and taught me many of her best dishes. I learned some of what made her a phenomenal cook. That was one of her amazing talents, she could taste a dish, then go home and recreate it, often better than the original. I learned recipes, techniques, and a dedication to doing it right rather than taking shortcuts. She almost never took shortcuts with food. Everything came from the same basic ingredients, but she could make each dish sing.
Mi suegra loved her family with a fierce quality, she would go to bat for you if she sensed an injustice and would not back down. She raised a large family, often never sure of their next meal, and every one of her surviving children went to college. She was determined that they would have a better life and, by golly, she made sure they did it, sometimes despite themselves.
In the time that I knew her she was the community grandmother, “la abuelita.” She was as interested in the lives of the second, third, and fourth generation of kids in town as in her own family. She fostered that community that I talked about at the top and held it together by constantly calling and checking in with everyone in her epic Rolodex in addition to little gifts of food.
Other Mother Figures in My Life
I am also thinking about my Great Aunt Franny who was a professional singer, teacher, and became my confidant during my very difficult twentieth year. She also opened her home to me when I needed it. She shared with me some of her struggles to figure herself out, and a deep early trauma. I am forever grateful for her opening herself up to me, a callow youth, so that I could perhaps understand her perspective on life. I learned to attempt to see the long view, and that fear can be a very powerful anchor, but if you embrace it, you can build a life that you love. She loved the life that she eventually built for herself, but it took years and courage. She also taught me some of her cooking secrets, and how to be bold in design.
There are more that come to mind, each special in her own way, each that have influenced me and the woman I have become. Here is a long overdue appreciation. Thank you. I hope to be as good a mother and as interesting a person as those who have mothered me and am working on it every day.
All the other MULTICULTURAL mamas out there
Thank you for all that you do, often with no recognition. Thank you for making cultural richness in the lives of your children a priority. Thank you for making sure both traditions are honored. Thank you for being you and sharing this journey of multicultural motherhood with me.
Please share your stories of those who mothered you, whether that person was related to you or not. What did you learn about the world and about being a strong person from the mother figures in your life?
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What is God? What is life? Why are we here, on this planet, at this time? What does it mean to be human? Is there accountability in this life or the next? How do I connect with the divine? What is religion and will it help me do so? These are a few of the questions I have thought about over the years. I have always felt a spiritual connection to the universe and for much of my life have grappled with the age old questions that inspired religions. Now I have a curious child who is beginning to ask the big questions and I am trying to figure out how best to teach him.
My Religion Story
I was raised in a secular household that focused on the complexity of big questions rather than any specific answer. It was full of love, support and exploration, and I would not change my childhood for any other. I had a wonderful childhood. My parents’ religious upbringing were Catholic, Presbyterian, and Mormon. My extended family on both sides were deeply religious, good people, but I often didn’t know how to talk to them, as there was a part of their life that made no sense to me.
At some point around 5th or 6th grade, I realized that I just knew that there did indeed exist a divine force. I began searching for answers in the various religions and spiritual traditions that I had available to me. At the time I happened to live on a street with at least ten different churches. I began attending services at the various options to see what fit. My clearest memories are of the Catholic Church, the ritual satisfied some part of what I was looking for and I went back many times. I never reached out for more instruction; at that time it was enough for me to be there.
My parents were incredibly supportive through all this experimentation on my part. In junior high I started attending an evangelical big box church because a friend had invited me. I didn’t get much spiritually from the experience even though most of the people were very earnest. Unfortunately they were trying to teach us a very prescribed version of the truth with no subtlety or room for hard questions. That just didn’t work for me and I couldn’t respect the idea that there was only one right answer and that this church, or any church, had the One True Way. I felt like I was being told not to think.
At that church I experienced for the first time the hypocrisy and theatre that can be involved in religion. I looked up once when we were all supposed to have our heads bowed in prayer while the pastor asked for people to raise their hands if they had opened their hearts to Jesus that day. He acknowledged several, and yet no one in the congregation had a raised hand. I completely stopped taking it seriously after that, but I had a lot of fun socially, really enjoyed the pageantry and singing for the holiday programs, and learned to ski.
Throughout high school and college I continued to try to find a religious community that supported intellectual thought in addition to the social support and spiritual experiences. I tried Baha’i, nearly every stripe of Christianity, Buddhism, and got seriously into Wicca for several years. I read books, oh so many books. I joined online forums and real life communities.
Some churches that were accepting of differences had no real direction, and others that seemed to have clear ideas were often so intolerant as to be intolerable. Wicca helped me find that connection to the divine for a long time, but it seemed that most people were there because they had had horrible experiences with the more traditional churches and were essentially on the rebound. I wanted a community of people moving toward something rather than away.
My last year or so of University I joined a Catholic RCIA program on campus and experienced for the first time an environment that inspired deeply intellectual and passionate discussions about religion and spirituality. My RCIA instructor was writing a book on ethics for engineers and we would talk for hours about the whys behind the catechism, the nature of good and evil, God and the church. I was hooked, then later baptized and confirmed into the Catholic church and haven’t really regretted it in the intervening years.
After moving to a much more conservative area after college I lost the intellectualism and philosophical stimulation. I have not had anyone to really talk with about religion since. There were bible study groups, but they were only interested in getting the ‘right’ answer. No one wanted to think about it much and resented my attempts. I still consider myself Catholic, but am not active as I once was.
My husband is a cradle Catholic who has been disillusioned by local church politics and we eventually had a son. Now my son is of an age to ask questions about God and where people go when they die and I am struggling to answer him.
I still hold onto the conviction that grew inside me when I was a girl that there is a force, another dimension, God, gods, an Over Soul, something bigger and connected to the universe that we humans can tap into sometimes. The Jesus story was a key part of my original conversion, but most of the time does not resonate with me much. Is there really a Heaven, a Hell, Purgatory, reincarnation, etc.? I don’t know and frankly don’t find that question very compelling anymore. I am much more interested in how to make a real connection with the divine from here on Earth, in this life. These days I get most of that connection through the rituals of yoga, although the Mass does still speak to me.
Religion and Parenting
My son is asking questions that I don’t know how to answer about religion. Part of me wants him to find his own answers, as I did. Another part of me wants to share with him the sense of connection that I have found in religion. The ritual of the Mass takes me to that space, and yet, some of the values taught in church are not what I want him to learn.
This is my real struggle and I have answered his questions as best I could, though I find myself saying a whole lot of “I don’t know, what do you think?” The problem with that is that he does not have the tools to make informed, thought out, deep, decisions. How is it possible to give him those tools without pushing an answer on him? If I take him to church it is like I telling him that this is what he should believe. If I do not, am I not doing the same thing in the other direction?
I would like to invite a respectful conversation. I am hoping to find interesting people with differing views who can have a really deep conversation without judgment or rancor. Especially these days with so much division in the world. This is my story, what are your thoughts?
I went to bed on Tuesday evening with still a faint glimmer of hope that the election results would turn around and prevent Trump’s election. I saw the writing on the wall, but held on to that faint hope. When I woke, I checked first thing and saw the results. Since then I have been obsessively reading everything in reaction, all the think-pieces, all the click-bait, everything to try to make some sense of where we go from here.
I have not been inspired to join the protests because our system worked. There is a certain amount of gaming of the system at the congressional level with gerrymandered districts, but that doesn’t come into play nearly as much in a presidential election. And, although Clinton won the popular vote, just under half of Americans voted for Trump. They also voted for Republican Congress and Senate candidates. Now some of those people voted for him holding their noses, maybe a lot of them. They were presented with two candidates that they did not like and chose the one most aligned with what they think is important. My Facebook feed was filled with people complaining about the choice presented to them. If they most often vote Republican, then they probably broke right with this choice as well.
To be clear, Mr. Trump is anathema to all I hold dear. His rhetoric, if he is able to enact any of it, will diminish us as a country and cause real, irreparable damage to many people. There are people who have kept xenophobic, racist, homophobic ideas hidden from public view for years who now see his rise to power as permission to bring those views out into the light of day. Some of those people will now feel permission to act out against anyone who looks like whoever they are afraid of. Mr. Trump’s rhetoric has poured gasoline on those embers.
Some portion of the half of the country who voted for Mr. Trump are fervent supporters who think he will save their way of life. Another portion are single issue voters, for whom gun rights or abortion or some other concern overwhelms all other considerations. I believe that is a short sighted way of choosing the person who represents the United States to the world, but it is not uncommon on both the left and the right. Yet another portion are folks who saw a choice between two unpalatable candidates and chose who they thought would be the lesser of two evils.
If you look at the map of where people voted for whom, drilled down to counties, it is clear that the divide in our country is most clearly seen in the difference between city and country. Throughout that swath of red in the middle of the country there were many pockets of blue, and they were all in and around cities.
Why is that? Some of it is that when you live cheek by jowl with many different types of people, you are forced to see their humanity. They are good and not so good just like you and yours. More telling is that the struggles and fears of people who live in the country are different than the struggles and fears of people who live in the city.
I happen to live in a strange mixture of both. I live near a major metropolitan area, but far enough away that the culture here is distinct. My congressional district has a Republican representative, although there have been Democrats in the past and the Democratic challenger came close to unseating him this time, although my county is light red on the map above. I live surrounded by agriculture and the folks who live and work in the fields. I understand the cries of farmers who just want to get on with their work without so much interference from big government. I see that some of those regulations push small farmers out of business and favor large corporations with the resources to deal with the regulations. On the other hand I respect the need to protect the people who work for the farmers and the consumers of their products.
Now we have a situation to deal with where the presidency, the House of Representatives and the Senate are all under Republican control. They will have the power to enact legislation that we have been staving off for years. There will most likely be a regression in our civil rights and the most vulnerable among us will be hurt. So what do we do? Do we protest in the streets? Perhaps that will be useful, if only by keeping apathy from setting in.
I have to admit that I was not active this political season and really didn’t know what I could have done, living in California where there was never any question that Hillary would win. Hillary didn’t exactly inspire me, but I was afraid of what the Donald could do if elected. Like many people, I just couldn’t believe that there were enough people who would really choose him. This has been a wake-up call for me, and I believe, for many others. I am newly committed to act in the political sphere. I have been silent, not wishing to deal with the high emotions generated by political opinion. I take responsibility for my inaction and vow to do better moving forward.
Since Tuesday I have struggled with the question of what to do, in what way can I, a small voice in the wilderness, actually have an effect. Here are some of my ideas: I will support organizations that fight for the rights of vulnerable people, I will become active in the political process both locally and on a larger stage. I will work to make sure that the state legislature is Democratic for the next census so that the congressional districts are not drawn to favor Republicans. This is what the Republicans did in 2010 and we can see the effect.
I will speak out, but I will do so in such a way as to invite a conversation. I am hoping to open minds and bring people together. I will educate by meeting people where they are and listening to their concerns. I think that is the only way affect real and lasting change. I will not hate. I will not fall into the trap of demonizing the other. It feels good, it feels righteous, but all it does is promote more hate, more fear. I was struck by an interview I heard on NPR this week with Antoine Leiris, who wrote a book after his wife was killed in the Paris attack in 2014. “You will not have my hate” is the most powerful idea I have come across this week. It transfers clearly to this situation. I see a lot of hate coming from the left by people who are suddenly confronted with their own vulnerability, who are desperately afraid that this country will turn against them and that their allies will sit silently while bad things happen. I understand that fear, I feel it for my family, and for myself. The trends are not going in the right direction.
I have watched, in my personal sphere, the social and political divide grow deeper and deeper. The Black Lives Matter movement has sparked truly ugly reactions from otherwise reasonable people. There is a lack of ability to imagine what someone from another group is going through. People see the protests, and the inconvenience, and the disruption but not the reasons people are taking to the streets. They see people angry with police, and don’t stop to think about the years of persistent prejudice and the system stacked against a person of color in our society. They think that because they can go their whole life without knowing someone who has been arrested, and if they are arrested it is because they did something to deserve it, that the same dynamic is true everywhere and for everyone.
This election has placed in sharp relief the division in our society. We must find a way to come together, or we will be torn apart. We must be powerful advocates for the most vulnerable of our society, but advocate does not necessarily mean adversary. Now I am not saying that an adversarial approach be verboten, I am just saying that we need to be careful to use that approach judiciously and where it might actually do some good. I have admired the strategists from the right for many years, they are focused and take a long view. The Democratic coalition has always been more inclusive, and as such, not nearly as focused, with priorities going in many different directions.
Perhaps this is the wake-up call we need to truly come together and act with purpose. I hope that the current anger does not turn into despair and apathy. “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” My greatest fear is that we will slump into silence and apathy, and promise, for myself and my little corner of the world, to act. I implore everyone out there to do the same, figure out a plan for yourself and what is most important to you, and act. Rage, but don’t just lash out. Rage with purpose and a plan.
I touched on the subject of the interaction of emotion with food in a previous post, but I thought it really deserved a more thoughtful look. Food is connected to emotion in a very powerful way. Sometimes the act of preparing food a particular way becomes a statement of identity. Food can be an act of love or a bone of contention. It has been both in my life. Many of our most difficult marital negotiations have centered around food, who prepares it, what gets prepared, choices about taste and nutrition, etc.
My mother in law expressed love for her family through food. She was an amazing cook who could recreate a dish after tasting it once, and often her version was better. She lived on three or four hours of sleep per night for much of her adult life so that she could be sure that her family ate well, in addition to all the other obligations of raising nine children, working and keeping house.
By the time my husband came around, he is the baby of the family, she was suffering from a serious heart condition and could no longer work in the fields. It didn’t stop her from doing all of the other things expected of a woman of her time and culture. She thought it absolutely necessary to have the ability to feed anyone who came to her home at the drop of a hat and spent a lot of time making sure that she could. Life and food and love were completely intertwined. Because of this, my husband grew up equating food with love in a very deep way.
For mi suegra, was both a point of pride and an act of love to always feed her crew. Financial hardships dictated that sometimes that meant bean tacos, but she was amazingly creative with the resources that she had. She also had cooperative reciprocal relationships in the community that had been cultivated over the years. She was known as “la abuelita” (little grandmother) in the community because she acted like a surrogate grandma to anyone younger than her. When I came to live with her, we would regularly deliver food to her friends, and regularly receive food from them. This is tomato season, and we would often open our front door to buckets of tomatoes left anonymously. We would then can one to two hundred quarts of tomatoes for use the rest of the year and the salsa made from those tomatoes would go to others as well. The community takes care of its own, especially the elders. It is an incredibly tight knit community with food playing a major role in the currency of communal exchange.
This is somewhat true in all cultures, more true in the more rural areas of the U.S. where my extended family lives than where I grew up. I was in a major metropolitan area and mutual support in the practicalities of life was much less pronounced in the community I knew. My parents moved states away from their families as young adults, so those natural networks didn’t exist either.
For me, food has always been a source of fuel or sensory experience. I enjoy the subtle differences in flavor and texture found in good food. I really like to eat. On the other hand I can ignore my body’s cues for food if I am doing something more interesting and can resent the time it takes out of my day. I could be riding bikes with my child or building something or writing or reading or any number of other, much more compelling activities. I enjoy the zen of a cooking project, but would give it up in an instant if I could afford help. I would hire a cook long before a housekeeper or gardener. If I could be free of the daily obligation of feeding other people I totally would.
I take some pride in being able to carry on the tradition of the food of my mother in law. She taught me many dishes and I can replicate them faithfully. I can follow a recipe successfully, and even modify it, but I cannot look at a bunch of disparate ingredients and come up with something yummy. That TV show Chopped would not be for me. I am not a particularly creative cook, but I learned her techniques for those dishes and my versions rival any others I have encountered. It is kind of cool to be the white girl who can make versions of Mexican dishes that are really appreciated in the Mexican community.
In the community of la abuelita, a concerted effort is made by all to keep those connections alive, often with food. Each time food is exchanged, there is a reciprocal obligation created. Most of the time it is a direct one to one reciprocity, but often it also works on the pay it forward principle. If you are known to give into the community, then the community also supports you. Those exchanges aren’t always food, often people would show up to help with a garden, or to fix a fence, or give rides, or anything else that needed doing.
Since la abuelita has passed away, we have allowed ourselves to slowly drift away from those communal connections. Part of that stems from the fact that many of those connections were with older folks who have since passed on, but a shameful part is that we no longer have la abuelita to push us to keep those connections alive. The hustle and business of daily life gets in the way and we have not been good about making an effort to stay connected outside of the family. We also don’t cook that good traditional food nearly as often, so have fewer opportunities to share. However, I have to admit that we cooked tamales just last week, had more than we could possibly eat, meant to take some to a couple of people, and never did. I just put the last of them in the garbage last night and I feel so guilty, that was a lot of work and an opportunity for connection that I just threw away.
In Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Goldilocks finds the Bear’s porridge too hot, too cold, or just right. Just as in the iconic children’s story, many parenting questions come down to finding the “just right” balance for your child. Today I am thinking about formal, organized activities. Childhood for my son is not as fluid as I remember mine being. I remember that I often had an activity such as gymnastics or dance, but I don’t think I ever did more than one at a time. I spent a lot of hours in independent play, either alone or with friends.
I really struggle with deciding how much is too much, how much is too little, and what is just right for my son. He is currently in soccer, karate and music lessons every week. There are other things he does occasionally and more structured activities and clubs he could join through school. Each week he has just one school day and one weekend day without an appointment . Plus he must practice the music and deal with any school obligations daily. Each activity was chosen for very good reasons and there are always more things that we could do, other activities that seem really cool. We often have to decline invitations because he has something already in that time slot.
So I worry that I am over-scheduling him, that his childhood will be too busy to really be childhood. I worry that he does not have enough time to just play. We spent most of last Sunday building a truly massive Lego structure as a base so that Lego Batman could defend himself against the Power Rangers Zords. It was intricate and he had a fully developed story for the lead up to the battle. He had a plan and we made it happen. I haven’t taken the time to just play for hours with him in way too long. I am often with him, shuttling him here and there and everywhere, and we do have great car conversations as we are rushing from place to place. We are so busy at various activities that home life is suffering as well. We are out and about so much that when we are home we are just as busy, taking care of food or laundry or any of the other myriad things that always need to be done, so that he very rarely gets my undivided attention. He asked again for Lego-mania several times during a hectic weekend, so finally last night we got in an hour before bedtime. It showed me how much he craves doing something with just Mama and no distractions.
On the other hand, none of the grown-ups in his life are particularly active. We are all older than most of the parents of kids his age and much less bouncy than we used to be. In addition, we live in a little bit of a rough neighborhood. There is just enough going on that I cannot in good conscience tell him to go outside and play unsupervised as I used to do as a child. He could go into the backyard I suppose, but we never got him into the habit of it since there were hazards there as well and it is not an inspiring place to play. I have started to try to encourage that, but he has no desire to be out there by himself, so unless I am out there with him he doesn’t get outside time. The upshot is that without formalized activities, he wold not get enough physical activity. Most of those formal activities are scheduled in the evening so that parents can be off work, but they are thirty to forty-five minutes from home so that we get home only in time to eat and sleep in a rush. For me, I put him to bed, often fall asleep doing so because I am so tired, then get up to finish chores and end up going to bed too late because I got just enough of a nap to make it difficult to go to bed when I should. He isn’t getting enough sleep either, which is very worrisome, although we are improving on that front.
When I was growing up, we would spend hours wandering the neighborhood with friends, at various houses or parks. There were kids I could play with on our street or I could just hang out with my sister. I got as much social interaction as I wanted in a very natural way. On the other hand, my son is an only child and all of his friends live a town away so that social interactions must happen through either formal activities or play dates which are their own scheduling hassle. There are few children on our street and they are not let out to play either.
That old way of life has closed down at least in this area, the whole society is afraid and a parent who lets her child wander is considered dangerously negligent. I could buck that trend, with difficulty, except that I am also infected with that fear to let him out on his own. My husband is even more protective than I am. I want him to grow into a strong, independent person and I know that he has to be able to make his own mistakes in order to do so, but I don’t know how much independence to give him or when to do so. What is too much, what is too little, and what is just right at this stage in his development? Will the benefits he gets from the music or sports or anything else outweigh the cost in time? Time is so precious and childhood time more so. What is the best use of his time to help him become a well rounded, creative, independent, good person? For us, when soccer season ends, I am going to try to resist the temptation to fill that time slot with more activities and to instead prioritize those few hours at home, so that evenings can be a time that we can enjoy as a family.
How about your family? How do you balance formal activities with free play? How about social interactions, is school enough, or does your child have neighborhood friends to play with? Does your child roam free? What is “just right” for your family?
Today is Mexican Independence Day. My husband and I stayed up long past my bedtime last night to watch the grito which we try to do each year. The grito is a tradition at midnight on Independence Day where the Mexican president shouts the names of the heroes of the Mexican Revolution and the crowd shouts “Viva!” after each name. There is significant pageantry and meaning to each gesture. Here is a fun video that explains it in general.
I love pageantry and enjoy these types of ceremonies. I also like to dissect them in detail, including the political implications since I find politics fascinating. Then I sat down to write this morning and was having a hard time phrasing my thoughts. I realized that this is one of those moments of intersectionality. I have to be super careful about what I say because I am not a native of the culture. In this context I am the other and my opinions, no matter how well informed, should not carry the same weight as a native of Mexico. No matter how educated I make myself about the culture and politics of Mexico or the Mexican-American community, I cannot possibly see all the subtleties of the situation.
Any knowledge I have is that of an interested outsider. What happens there does not really affect my life or my future except in a general way. In some ways that allows me to be impartial and see the facts of the situation, as best as is possible from far away, but I know that I am missing a huge chunk of information as an outsider.
What I can say is that, even though there are myriad endemic problems in the country, the Mexican people genuinely love their country, want the best for the country, and have tremendous pride in who they are. That is as it should be. In the United States we have unrest and racial tension and protest, but what we need to realize is that those protesting are doing so because they want their country to be better. Protest, no matter how offensive its form, is inherently hopeful. It is people seeing an injustice and acting to fix it because they believe that their country can and should be better. It is an act of love. The opposite of love of country is indifference, not protest. I am most frightened for the future when apathy and indifference become more and more the norm.
Today is a day of pride in the Mexican culture and pride in the people of Mexico. Today let us celebrate the richness of Mexican culture and the beauty of it’s people. Today we will have enchiladas rancheras for dinner and talk about Mexico and the history of the revolution at a level my son can understand. We will also play music.
How do you celebrate with your kids? How do you keep your culture vibrant for the next generation? I will be exploring this idea more as the holidays approach and would love to hear your stories as well.
This year is the fifteenth anniversary of 9-11 and most of my grown up life has happened in the shadow of that event. On that day, America changed and we are just now really seeing those changes come home to roost.
I remember hearing about the first plane hitting the tower on the radio as I was driving to set up a charity event that morning. We weren’t sure what had really happened, if it was just some random tragedy or what. Then we arrived to the venue and began setting up as usual. We were isolated in that bubble, going about our normal activities. No one else came past the time we were expecting to see the event organizers, so we called the office and learned about the second plane and all of those implications. We had to wait another hour before the event organizers finally called off the event. It was an odd sort of limbo, where we knew there was something momentous happening in the world, but were cut off from it. We then struck our equipment and headed back to the office.
My boss set up a TV and we were glued to that TV for the rest of the day. I remember those initial images, before the more graphic ones were censored. I remember seeing bodies falling, I remember watching the planes crash into the towers over and over again. I remember the Pentagon and the other plane taken over and crashed by its passengers. I remember that day with the same emotional force as the day my grandmother died. It is seared in my memory, branded on my soul.
Immediately afterward I felt the need for revenge and a fierce patriotism. How dared anyone attack us. I fully supported bombing Afghanistan to smithereens. I didn’t care who got killed, no one could attack us like that and get away with it. They had poked the sleeping dragon and could very well deal with the consequences. Our entire country went a little crazy in the wake of 9-11 and I was no different.
I came to earth rather quickly when evidence of that craziness manifested itself here at home. When the USA Patriot Act passed and someone finally read the contents; when a list of songs banned from the radio came out because they were old war protest songs or mentioned New York and that would be too much for our delicate sensibilities; when the war expanded to Iraq for no clear reason; the political establishment was using the tragedy to consolidate power.
In the immediate wake of the attack, our entire country came together as one. It didn’t matter what your racial or ethnic background, what your normal politics, we all felt attacked and there was an incredible amount of support within communities. Later, that began to disintegrate and it seems like our collective anger, once denied its proper outlet, turned inward.
It is only after this time that the racial tensions began to escalate to the point where today we have a presidential candidate who can say horrible things about entire groups of people and not only get away with it, actually gain popularity because of it. Yes, before 9-11 we had OJ Simpson and Rodney King and some places scattered throughout where the police forces were notorious. However, and perhaps I was living in a bubble, but I didn’t see the deep, widespread racial hatred that manifests itself today. That was something we read about in school and deplored.
I knew that there was prejudice and I knew that there was work to be done to reach equality. I don’t want to discount those struggles in any way. My husband experienced direct and blatant racism growing up in a small rural town. For example, he was told by his high school counselor that his career options were the frozen food factory or the military. Understand, he was an All American athlete and an A student and this person had no cognitive disconnect saying that. This kind of thing happened often where he had to prove himself again and again in excess of what other kids had to do in order to gain the same respect. So I am not saying that prejudice and racism didn’t exist, I know that it did.
What I am trying to express is that those thoughts, words, and actions were not socially acceptable in the larger society. Speaking about fantasies of violence against any minority group, let alone any such actions, were almost universally deplored and were seen as the lunatic fringe. Since 9-11 it has become OK to talk about hurting, kicking out, taking wholesale actions against entire groups of people. I am a student of history and am very much reminded of the times our country has turned ugly. I am reminded of the Japanese interment camps, of the Trail of Tears, and even of “No Irish Need Apply.”
I am frightened that we are sliding into another dark time in our country, one where horrible things will be done in the name of patriotism. We have allowed so many freedoms to be stripped away and so many privacy violations in the name of security. How far is too far? At what point will our republic eat itself alive and devolve into an authoritarian regime? It may not be as far off as one hopes.
I saw a meme today with a picture of the Twin Towers and the caption, “Never Forget. Never Forgive.” I was deeply saddened by that caption, and more than a little frightened. If we never forgive, we can never recover, we can never thrive. If we never forgive we will perpetually be seeking revenge and perpetually be fueling the hatred that spawns acts of violence. Our great country, and I do truly believe it is a wonderful and great country despite my concerns, could very easily follow the path of other nations that have chosen hatred and fear and have suffered immensely because of that choice. I am specifically thinking of France, but also of Israel among others.
I am generally an optimistic person and I have great hope that we as a country will rise to respond in healing ways to the challenges of our time. I am hoping that because the challenges are great, we will be able to come together to meet those challenges and to move toward healing rather than division. It is a major reason I have become motivated to create this space in a little corner of the internet. I am hoping to become a part of the solution, to promote understanding of the other, so that our differences don’t overshadow our shared humanity. It has been fifteen years since a few fanatics changed the course of history on a sunny fall morning. I hope, as we move farther from that fateful day and face decisions that will define who we are, that we can choose to see the humanity and the struggles of those whose culture is different from our own rather than just the otherness.
911 Tribute in Light Photo by Chris Schiffner (@ChrisSchiffner) http://www.schiffner.com
Here is a picture of our boy’s lunch today. The salad includes Romaine and iceberg lettuce, baby spinach, tomatoes, beets, cucumbers, carrots, and a little sprinkle of Trader Joe’s Quatro Formaggio. All of the ingredients were at his request (well almost, I snuck in the spinach) and he ate it with only reasonable reminders to eat. Proud Mama? You betcha!
I was having a conversation with another mom the other day and she mentioned how jealous she was that I don’t have to struggle to get my son to eat veggies. This got me thinking, because we do have food struggles. Not everything is as easy and wonderful as I might wish or as might appear from the outside, but perhaps I do have something to say on the subject.
I must begin with an admission, I am shameless in the use of dessert to inspire him to eat something he isn’t fond of. The other day I was tired and pressed for time and didn’t give him a vegetable. He came to me and asked for it so that he could earn dessert. We have been very consistent with this rule and it has saved so many headaches, whine fests, and power struggles. He knows that if he doesn’t eat his vegetables and a reasonable amount of protein, then he cannot have dessert. It does mean that I have to have something on hand that he likes enough to inspire him as a reward.
There are a fairly large number of veggies he won’t touch for any reward including: onions, olives, peppers of any kind, and avocados. Who doesn’t like avocados? There are more, I just can’t think of them at the moment.
He has also, and this gets to the real reason I am writing this, moved away from eating Mexican food. He used to be happy with frijoles, enchiladas rancheras, sopa de arroz and many other traditional dishes as long as they weren’t too spicy. It now takes serious cajoling to get him to even try dishes with those flavors.
I swore that I would not be one of those people who catered to their children and fixed different meals for different family members. I am getting too tired to fight it very strenuously anymore. My husband and I really enjoy the traditional dishes and like to make them fairly regularly. Having to pressure a tired child to eat really puts a damper on our enjoyment of our own meal, especially since he will eat a salad or something equally nutritious with little prompting. I don’t enjoy the extra work a second meal requires, but it makes my husband really sad to see his son rejecting the dishes mi suegra (mother in law) taught us how to make. For my husband, food is love, and rejection of food is in some way a rejection of that love. It is like our boy is rejecting the abuelita he never met and that is painful.
We will continue to expose him to food of all kinds and will insist that he at least try everything prepared for him. Our hope is that, over time, those flavors will become a part of him. He still gets a significant number of meals prepared by my family. The food he eats there, and the rules about food are somewhat different than at my house. He still eats well and understands that different rules apply in different situations.
My strategy for dealing with the times that he does not want to try something I would call firmly passive. I don’t cajole or buy into his whining. He has to taste everything on his plate and I will tell him what I expect him to eat. If he does not, then he does not get dessert or any other food until it is time for the next meal. This works for us because it takes all of the emotional force out of the equation. He is generally willing to please and, most of the time, he eats a balanced meal. One day not too long ago, I prepared a salad for him very similar to the one he ate today and he didn’t eat it. After an hour or so, I wrapped it up and put it in the refrigerator. He got the same salad for dinner. There was no battle, just a quiet persistence.
I remember once, I was in probably fourth grade, that I sat at the dining room table for an entire afternoon refusing to take one bite of icky, slimy, nasty fish. I don’t remember who won that battle, I think I must have finally caved, or managed to feed enough to the cat when my mom was out of the room to serve honor on both sides. My mom would not have backed down, she has a will of iron under that gentle exterior. I do know that it took being served rainbow trout that I had caught just before, and had been cooked over the campfire to get me to begin to like fish. That was the only kind of fish I would eat for years. Just thinking of that fish, lightly dredged in flour and fried in a cast iron skillet, makes me want to go fishing. My mouth is watering right now.
I thought about that incident when figuring out how to approach food with my son. I feel that it is counter productive to make food a battle ground but it is very important that he learn to love vegetables and to eat well. Not one of the adults in his life is at a healthy weight, so there is a real worry that he will pick up our bad habits. My parents talk about their diet all the time and that worries me as well. I have no desire to convey to him an obsession with food in any way. One of the reasons that I have chosen the approach I take is to take the emotion out of food. There is no guilt or emotional blackmail and he can listen to his body and stop when he is full. It is important to me that food is not fraught as he grows so that hopefully he can have a healthy attitude about food as an adult.
How do you approach food? How do you get your children to eat their veggies? How do you deal with picky eaters? How does food play into keeping your ethnic heritages and passing them on to your kids? Have you faced any similar issues? What have you done about it?
OK, I am off to make dinner, Chile con Carne if you are wondering.