The sun was still shining through the patio doors and I was almost done cooking dinner. My beautiful little girl came in the kitchen just as she always did. I have figured out that she is driven there, in spurts, partly because of the anticipation of being hungry and then because of the marvelous aromas that lure her there. That day I realized that she is also driven by...curiosity.
To a five or six year old who grows up in an era of convenience, super-market conglomerates and a generous assortment of chain restaurants in the heart of her suburb, cooking one's own meals must hold some type of "magic" potential. She seemed to be wondering how the food that her Mama throws in the pot comes out of it magically delicious. This was my chance! A chance to form yet another bond with this lovely little giggling fairy of mine with the rosy cheeks, and the long brown curls.
In an instant, the giggles and the smiles just stopped and a sad look overcame my little girl. I asked her what was wrong, what made her change so quickly. "Mama, what if I never learn to cook like you and Nanny?", she said with her big blue eyes afraid to disappoint.
I'm a mother, who treasures her child but also never wants to set her up for failure or disappointment. In that moment, I had to look in my heart and think carefully at the answer that I gave her. I looked back at whether I had ever shared her concern. The answer was, no.
In my heart I always felt that there was a passion, a love and maybe yes, magic, that all the women in my family commanded in their presence as they cooked. The kitchen was their realm. I had seen Mamita and my Mom cook endless meals. There was a time that I thought everyone cooked as they did but as I got older I realized that was not necessarily the case.
The experience that confirmed this for me happened when I was 12 years old, on one of our trips to Puerto Rico. Although I had not yet learned how to cook (yes, I was a late bloomer in that sense), I watched my great-grandmothers, Marcola & Mera (short for Esmeralda). It was on that trip that I realized where the technique, the intensity, the creativity and the dedication that Mamita and my mom had always showed, came from these women, the elders. It was also at that moment when I realized, without a doubt, that I would one day show that same love and prowess in the kitchen. I didn't know when, but I was sure that I would.
That memory gave me the ability to turn to my child and give her an honest answer, from my heart. I needed to deliver the same message to her in a way that she could understand it at 6 years old. I knelt down in front of her, took her hand and looked into her worried eyes.
"Do you see these lines, baby?" I asked, pointing to one of the lines on her palm.
"What lines? No." she answered, looking more through her palm than at it.
"These lines in your palm, that go in different directions." At that, she smiled.
"Well one of these lines is your family line" And she responded with a look of confusion, of course.
"What I mean is that the magic that Mama has when I cook came from Nanny. The magic that Nanny has, came from Mamita. And the magic that Mamita had, came from Abuela Marcola, and so on, and so on. You come from a line of strong women, passionate women. You won't understand that yet because life has to sometimes put us through tests in order for us to remember that it's there. Every person has been given gifts, but sometimes life helps us to rediscover them. Like I said, you won't understand that part yet. What I want you to know is that you come from a line of women who were dedicated to the kitchen, in their heart. And each of those women passed that happiness that comes from cooking to their daughters. Nanny and I are giving it to you. One day, it will wake up inside of you and you will be just as good, if not better."
"You promise, Mama?"
"I believe this with all of my heart", I said looking into those blue diamonds glistening at me, and holding her warm little hand to my heart.
That was a long time ago. Yet, last week, the memory came vividly flooding back to me. I was right.
My daughter is eleven and is growing up in a suburb of Upstate, NY. She comes from a Puerto Rican mother and a Dominican father. She has not yet had the opportunity to step foot on either of our islands. And yet still, that is one very proud little Latina. Part of this comes from having parents and family who is proud of our heritage, yes. However, in order for that heritage to flourish inside of her and to mean something to her, it must be nourished. I found with my daughter that the best way to do this is in the kitchen.
She is a great student and has learned so much. I marvel in watching her as she develops her own cooking techniques, even as a newbie, a little girl. It makes me feel that perhaps we don't just pass on DNA to our children but also memories and experiences. Sometimes I've watched her do things that I haven't yet taught her. Or perhaps, it may be that she watches her grandmother and I even closer than what we realize.
Last week I came home exhausted from a long day at the office, and saw it as an opportunity to continue her cooking lessons. My daughter insisted that she wanted me there, but that night she wanted no direction. She wanted to make that meal on her own, from start to finish. Proud, and not at all skeptical, I conceded.
The meal was looking fabulous and the neighbors must have been well aware that we were cooking because it smelled amazing in our kitchen. I was helping clean up before we sat down to eat, and caught myself glancing at her with one of my famous side-way squints.
"Hey, what's up with you wearing Mama's apron, little lady?" I teased her. It was odd because she has her own apron that she loves.
She put down what she was doing and turned to me. There was a moment's pause before she looked at me and smiling said, "I'm wearing your apron because tonight I cooked just like you do, and did everything just like you do. Tonight, I deserve to wear your apron."
You can imagine the love and the pride that swelled in my heart in that moment. I wanted to scoop her up and give her kisses just as I've always done since she was a baby. I held back. Instead, I nodded and gave her a big smile, because she was right.
For that night we were as equals. My baby was wearing my apron. Behind her, I looked at the picture of my grandmother that always keeps me company in the kitchen. I knew she'd be smiling just like that if she were there too. And, I remembered that my daughter's gift, is literally in the palm of her hands...
The first (top) picture is my apron, coveted by the most beautiful little girl in my world.
The second is a Polaroid picture of my grandmother, Mamita, and I on the morning of my 6th birthday.
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