Cinco de Mayo: La Familia Food Fare

I’ve been happily sampling my friend, Loreῆa’s, mexican food fare in preparation for Cinco de Mayo, now past, but as a FAVOR which began around Easter (I’m still eating). Loreῆa is a petite, sassy, model-like, abuelita. Last year, she ever-so-patiently taught me how to apply eyelash enhancements.

“Never call them FAKE eyelashes, mija,” she said. They’re going to tickle your eyelids like your butterfly thoughts tickle your writer’s mind,” she encouraged, standing over me as I lay in the hallway near her bathroom, wrestling with the eyelash glued to my left ring finger AND my eyelid.

“Catch them and place them like a parasol, shading the windows of your funny, compassionate soul,” she suggested hypnotically. Ahhhhh. Easy, breezy beauty. Next thing I knew, I appeared wonderfully…complete, sporting a comfortable ensemble pieced together like a fashion puzzle to attend a professional speaking engagement.

Most recently, I’ve been looming in Loreῆa’s massive kitchen, donning work jeans and lipgloss to allay a multitude of fears: the parasols will fall from my face into any one of Loreῆa’s admixtures simmering on the stove or resting in a bowl on the kitchen sink. I may spill some of the green chili sauce, which I’ll happily clean up, mopping all the way into the adjacent room, thus perspiring.

She knows that I break into fitful anxiety when I’m anywhere near a kitchen.  So, I try to remain calm watching this enviable, culinary wonder prepare food without shedding a tear as she chops cebolla.

“It’s no secret, Lyn. Ama taught me to soak the peeled onion in vinegar for a minute or two before I chop it,” Loreῆa offered, singing her lyrical instruction while reading my mind.

Tekkie equipment need not take up space in her culinary environs, though she owns the latest, color-coordinated appliances. Assembling a food processer baffles me, but I can turn on the gas stove. I can stir the contents in a pot. I can sweep the floor, wash the dishes, take out the trash AND sample the food while her resident family members prepare the outdoors.

“Taste this chili verde, por favor. It’s missing something,” Loreῆa motions, cupping a wooden spoon while raising the steaming contents to my open-like-a-hungry-baby mouth.

“Lime,” I said, smacking my lips. Nodding in agreement, Loreῆa squeezed the juice from a slice of lime into the simmering sauce. I marvel that she ALWAYS applies my seemingly quirky suggestions without question.

Many quirky times, I’ve been grocery shopping with Loreῆa in search of the perfect hominy, the masa de maiz, the fragrant cilantro, the seasoned pollo and carne asada, the carnitas, the dried corn husks, the summer, white-striped zuchinni for calabasitas – she makes a BIG pot of the creamy, soup-like, veggie fare just for me.

Thankfully, there are many specialty stores in the area, BUT Loreῆa desired to visit la familia in Santa Clarita, first.

“I know where the best markets are on the way back,” she said, remotely firing the engine in the Escalade. The Escalade. A sapphire blue, cushy Cadillac. Auto Pilot. The pedals rise to greet Loreῆa’s itsy, bitsy feet. I’m enamored with the buttons on the GPS and the BOSE sound system every time I travel with her.

To Be Continued