Posts by Marta:
- Heat oven to 375°F. Line cookie sheets with parchment paper.
- In large bowl, stir cookie mix, 1/2 cup of the coconut, the pecans, butter and egg until stiff dough forms.
- On floured surface, roll half of dough to 1/4-inch thickness. Cut with 2-inch round or fluted cookie cutter. Place 2 inches apart on cookie sheets. Repeat with remaining half of dough.
- Bake 7 to 9 minutes or until set. Cool 2 minutes; remove from cookie sheets. Cool completely.
- To make each sandwich cookie, spread about 2 teaspoons dulce de leche on bottom of 1 cookie. Top with second cookie, bottom side down; gently press cookies together so some of filling seeps out around edges. Roll edges in remaining 1/2 cup coconut. Place cookies on cooling rack.
- Sprinkle tops of sandwich cookies with powdered sugar. Store between sheets of waxed paper in tightly covered container.
- 2 cups uncooked parboiled rice (Uncle Ben’s is best, but NOT the instant kind)
- 1 cup cold water
- 1 cup chicken broth
- Olive oil
- 2 drained cans Vienna sausage cut into 1 inch slices
- 1 med yellow onion, finely chopped
- 1/2 med. green bell pepper, finely chopped
- 3 garlic cloves minced
- 1 (8 oz.) tomato sauce
- 1 cup dry white wine
- 1 Bay leaf
- 1 small jar diced red pimientos w/ liquid
- Bijol -just a pinch to color the rice
- 1 small can peas, drained
- Are you personally related to or do you know any Pedro Pans?
- Is this the first time you’ve heard about the Pedro Pan exodus?
Betty Crocker Kitchens – Dulce de Leche, por favor
August 30th, 2010I was privileged to attend an event in Minneapolis last week called Baking With Betty. As in Betty Crocker. (Yes, I know!) I was out-of-my-skin excited to get to visit and cook in the famed Betty Crocker Kitchens.
The event included about 30 bloggers from all over the country. I can’t even begin to tell you what a wonderful time we had. I think all of us were a little wide-eyed about getting to experience the fabulousness of being in the iconic Betty Crocker Kitchens.
But much to my everlasting delight, I was part of a smaller group that got to cook with the incredible Chef Cristina of Que Rica Vida in the Studio Kitchen. (I know. Shut up.)
NOTE: Click on the headline to watch Chef Cristina describe our time with her in the Betty Crocker Kitchens.
Me, with Sylvia of Mama Latina Tips and Melanie of Modern Mami.
And because we were the Hispanic bloggers, we got to cook some familiar dishes. (In Spanish, of course.) The six of us learned to make crepes with dulce de leche, of course! And churros (which I’ll find a way of stuffing with dulce de leche also.) All were made using Bisquick. <–Genius. (I promise to share those recipes in the weeks to come.)
We made cookies of various types, but of course, I was personally enthralled with anything that involved dulce de leche. I totally had my Diva de Dulce de Leche radar working that day.
Heaven in a can: Dulce de Leche.
I was amazed (and relieved) that Cristina didn’t ask me to leave the kitchen. I was just having that much fun. I worried that my very loud vocalization and declarations of love for the perfect crepe (Crepes, people!) were a bit much, but Cristina was a wonderful teacher and a fun sport.
Seeing my enthusiasm for the dulce de leche, she assigned me to dulce de leche detail. No way was I going to turn down that sweet job! (no pun intended.)
And so we commenced with the baking and the filming and the tasting.Yes, tasting. I know I was out of turn, but that there is dulce de leche!
Caught with my hand in the Dulce de Leche.
I was particularly happy that I got to make alfajores with the dulce de leche filling. I thought that was right up my alley.
Alfajores (Dulce de Leche Sandwich Crème Cookies)
| 1 | pouch (1 lb 1.5 oz) Betty Crocker® sugar cookie mix |
| 1 | cup coconut |
| 1/2 | cup pecan halves, toasted, finely chopped |
| 1/3 | cup butter or margarine, softened |
| 1 | egg |
| 1 | can (13.4 oz) dulce de leche (caramelized sweetened condensed milk) |
| 2 | tablespoons powdered sugar |
This recipe along with many other wonderful things can be found on the General Mills/Que Rica Vida website in Spanish. Or on the Betty Crocker site in English.
But then, my people, dulce de leche is as bilingual as they come!
Latina Bloggers with Chef Cristina
Our group of Latina Bloggers included: Melanie of Modern Mami, Silvia of Mama Latina Tips, Myself, Joscelyn of Mami of Multiples, Migdalia of Latina on a Mission, and Nika of Nika’s Culinaria.
[Thanks again to General Mills for the invitation. Disclosure: They paid for everything and treated me like a queen. (Even if they hadn't, I would still gush about the fabulous treatment and event.) Thanks to Matt Holland Photography for making me look cute in spite of my self.] =D
Capturing the Moment
August 9th, 2010My family of origin consisted of Papi, Mami and six of us kids. I was am the youngest of this brood.
Here I am celebrating my 4th birthday. New dress, clean curls, birthday cake and a professional portrait that captured the moment.
When I was a very young child in Cuba, my parents would have a professional photographer come to our home in order to photograph the child whose birthday was being celebrated. Sometimes the photograph would include all of the invited guests.
I’m grateful that they did this. We have some beautiful portraits of us at each special event. There’s just one small problem: We were never photographed together.
So, to recap, we had a professional photographer visit our home at least six times a year. All of us were dressed in our party finery and yet, my siblings and I were never photographed together. I know. I’m still not over it.
There’s not one photo of the six of us together before 1971 (which is when I got my first camera and took care of the problem myself, but that’s not important right now).
We’ve all questioned my mom over this lapse. What was she thinking? Or not thinking? She’s never been able to give us a satisfactory answer. C’est la vie.
I know I’m in total reaction to this familial faux pas, but whenever the six of us adults are together, I make sure we capture the moment.
I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
Smells Like Cuban Food
August 9th, 2010You know you’re in a Cuban home if, when you walk in, you can smell The Smell. You know what I’m talking about – that unmistakable, mouth-watering, oh-so-inviting, my-mom-is-amazing, God-I-love-Cuban-food smell.
It all begins with a simple onion, a luscious green bell pepper and some garlic cloves – The Trifecta of Cuban Cooking Perfection.
Grab your olive oil and sauté those three until the peppers are soft and the onions are transparent, add a can of tomato sauce and you’ve got yourself a perfect “sofrito.” The sofrito is the basis of all that is good and holy in a Cuban kitchen.
The Unmistakable Smell travels upstairs and through the entire house, exactly like in those old cartoons where the smell of a fresh baked pie becomes a long, smoky arm attached to a beckoning hand, and when it reaches the unsuspecting noses of my fortunate family it leads them helplessly down to my kitchen.
“Cuban food!” they exclaim and hover around long enough for me to start giving the “set the table” orders. They comply quickly and without complaint. Cuban food is its own reward.
It doesn’t get any better than this. =D
Arroz con Salchichas
(NOTE: You don’t have to add salt, unless you want to. The broth and sausages usually add enough saltiness.)
1. Heat the olive oil in a large pan over medium high heat.
2. Add the onion, garlic, and green pepper and sauté about 5 minutes or until onion is translucent.
3. Add tomato sauce, white wine, pimientos with their liquid and bay leaf and simmer together over low heat for about 10 minutes.
4. In a large stockpot, bring water and chicken broth to a rolling boil.
5. While the liquid is boiling, wash rice and drain well.
6. Color the wet rice with the Bijol powder. (you just add a pinch to quickly color the rice.)
7. Add the rice to the boiling water, stir well, and reduce heat to medium low.
8. Add the sliced sausage to the tomato mixture and stir well.
9. Add tomato mixture to the rice.
10. Continue cooking over low heat for about 20 minutes or until liquid is absorbed.
After the rice is done, quickly add the can of peas, stirring them into the cooked rice – let it sit for a minute or two, just until the peas get hot.
Serve with maduros, galletas and ice-cold Materva. Nope, it really doesn’t get any better than this.
(previously posted on Babalú Blog.)
Follow us!
August 6th, 2010While I, Marta, am at home with my kids enjoying the sweetness of a Southern California summer, my co-blogger, Carrie is in New York City this weekend attending the BlogHer 2010 convention.
Her whirlwind tour of the Big Apple has so far included a visit to the Today Show and a close encounter with Matt Lauer. How do I know this?
Twitter.
Sometimes informative. Always entertaining. And just a little chismoso. Follow us! We want to connect with you.
Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy
Blog Talk
August 4th, 2010As far back as I can remember I have kept a journal or a diary of some sort. In the years before blogging, I would faithfully recap the mundane events of my uneventful life, my hopes, my fears, and maybe a little wishful thinking.
Because my personal journals were never intended for public consumption, I felt free to write whatever I felt without censoring myself. Even though, in my case, there’s really not much to censor. (I have never been comfortable with the use of profanity, even in the confines of my personal pages, but that’s not important right now.)
But now, I blog. And I write about my extraordinarily ordinary life for all the world to see.
I’m so glad I started doing this. And I make no apologies for the stories I tell and the way I share things. I’m just happy that other people can relate to me and like reading my stuff.
I do have a confession to make, though. I don’t tell you everything. I know. Shocking, isn’t it?
Let me explain.
I feel like I’ve got a lot to share. I want to document my life and my stories, but I don’t like to whine, or complain, or rant, because, well….I don’t like to whine, or complain, or rant in my real life.
Of course, there’s a time and place for rants and complaints. I just don’t happen to believe it’s on this most public of forums. That’s what best friends are for. And although I genuinely love my blog, I can conclusively say it’s not my BFF.
So, I’ve come up with a solution that has served me well these past years. Not just in writing blog posts, but in my real life.
I keep two journals.
First thing in the morning, as I have my first cafécito I pull out a spiral bound notebook and I write.
Unedited, free-form, with no punctuation or rules of grammar. I date it at the top and just write. This is where my rants and whining find a place of expression. I write three pages in longhand and don’t stop writing until those three pages are done. I write without censorship or judgment. Like Nike encourages, I just do it.
The concept of these “morning pages” are from the book, The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. And it helps to get the mental clutter out first thing in the morning so I can get on with the rest of my day.
In the second, nicer edition of my journal duo, I write at the end of my day, and list all of the things that I’m grateful for. (There are definitely days I can only muster up gratitude for my coffee-maker and my pillow, but that’s not important right now, either.)
The idea of the Gratitude Journal is from a book I read years ago called Simple Abundance by Sarah Ban Breathnac. (She gets a little too spacey and new-agey for my personal tastes, but the concept of the Gratitude Journal is genius.)
Writing my journals in this kind of tandem have helped, not just my writing, but my attitude. I tend to look for things to be grateful as I go through my days. Writing the three morning pages helps me to de-clutter, not just my brain, but my emotions.
What I’ve found as I have maintained this writing discipline in my life is that I don’t complain as much or as often. I’ve found I’m much more grateful for the simplest things. I’ve found that I tend to look for good and positives.
But most of all, I’ve found that the more I express gratitude, the more I seem to have to be grateful for. Hmm….I wonder which came first?
So, tell me, do you journal?
(cross-posted at MBFCF)
Maybe That’s Why They Call it Vanity
August 2nd, 2010I drive around my suburban neighborhood in a minivan. It’s actually a KIA Sedona. It’s not trendy. It’s not cutesy. It’s just a utilitarian minivan.
But, I like it. A lot.
We just call it The KIA. And that has become its given name.
My son, Adam, who is 24 and who has, shall we say, a different driving style than I do, mocks me whenever I am driving and I accelerate to pass someone.
“Ya, Kia, Ya!” He shouts as if he were driving (no pun intended) a team of horses.
Mom accelerates. Adam shouts: “Ya, KIA, Ya!”
It’s even better when he does it with a Cuban accent, which makes it sound like he’s yelling for the KIA to STOP.
“Ya, KIA, Ya! Por favor, basta ya!”
We laugh every time. (But then, you know, we’re easily entertained…)
So, I had been thinking of getting a personalized license plate. (Okay, a VANITY plate. Shut up.)
My original one, Smrtqbn (that also happens to be my Twitter name in case you want to follow me, but that’s not important right now) has expired and I was trying to come up with a new plate.
ON A SIDE NOTE: We applied for Cuba2Go, which is the name of my online business Cuba To Go!, and I got very excited about that, but the Braniacs Who Work At the California DMV wouldn’t approve it (I am so not kidding about this!) because it sounded (wait for it….) racist to them. (Racist?? Seriously? Look at the stuff that has slipped by them!!!)
We even showed them extensive documentation that Cuba to Go! was indeed our business name and was REGISTERED WITH THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA as such, but no go.
Which now left us pondering other clever combinations of letters to make some kind of a mobile statement as we drove around town in The KIA.
How about “Ya, KIA, Ya!” ?
How clever were we? So, there we were giving each other high fives all around, until…. we put the letters together as they would appear on the license plate and silently read the finished product to ourselves.
All six of us got very quiet.
It was my 96 year old Cuban mom who was the first to say it: “Parese algo Japones.”
Sure enough. YAKIAYA sounded like a Japanese surname. (It’s actually not. I know. I Googled it. But still…)
So, who needs a vanity plate?
I have other ways to recognize The KIA.
Does anyone else have a nickname for their car? Tell me.
No Regrets.
July 26th, 2010I don’t know how many posts I’ve started with….“I have my mom for the weekend,” but I know there are many.
My mom, Luz, is in good health. She doesn’t suffer from any disease other than old age.
Her bones are healthy. She has a great appetite. She repeats herself occasionally (96!), but is completely lucid. (If you have not yet seen it, check out this video where she explains how Google and Yahoo work.)
Sometimes she gets tired. And she gets demanding. And she gets unreasonable. And I find myself getting a bit of an attitude. (Like, I’ve never been tired and demanding and unreasonable!)
You know what I’m talking about. I (internally) roll my eyes and think, “Ay, Mami, por favor.”
I confess that I get tired of catering to her needs. Yes. I’m that selfish. (I know. Shut up.)
And then I regroup and remember this: I do not want to have any regrets.
No regrets.
That’s my mantra on the weekends when she stays with us and wants things done her way.
And believe me, her way can be pretty exacting.
For example, she likes the water in the shower to be body temperature. So I test it before helping her get in, with my elbow, just like I tested the bath water for my babies.
She needs three bath towels. Three. Heated in the dryer so that they are toasty. One for her hair, one for her shoulders, another for the rest of her.
She likes three hot meals. The table must be set with real dishes. Spoon and knife on the right, fork on the left. Napkin below the silverware on the right. No paper or plastic for her.
Coffee or tea cups must have matching saucers. No random mugs for her.
There’s a long list of idiosyncratic must-haves. And I go out of my way (and comfort-zone) to provide them.
And sometimes, because of my own selfishness, I balk at her demands.
But I quickly re-group and remind myself, “She’s 96! Show some compassion.”
Then I repeat these words: No regrets.
That phrase generally knocks me off of my selfish-throne and allows me to be gracious.
Because she asks me to do other things that aren’t on the radar of most other ninety-six year olds.
So, without complaint, I do her hair and fix her makeup. And paint her nails.
When she asks for the bright red polish, I laugh and shake my head. “Ay Mami, por favor.”
And I thank God that I get to do this.
No regrets.
(previously posted on MBFCF)
The Red Umbrella – a giveaway.
July 26th, 2010[NOTE - 7/28/2010 - Congratulations to the winner of The Red Umbrella giveaway: Tracy. Thanks for sharing your story about the Kindertransport, too. Send me your snail mail address and I will get the book out to you. Thank you for entering.]
There is an episode in Cuban history that not many people outside of our community are aware of .
When Castro and his cronies took power, not only was personal property at risk of being confiscated by the new communist government, but parents were going to lose their rights over their own children.
Desperate and terrified Cuban parents made the unthinkable decision to send their children out of the country rather than risk losing them to Marxist-Leninist indoctrination.
Airplane tickets and passports were clandestinely secured. With the help of the Catholic Welfare Bureau (Catholic Charities) of Miami 14,048 (!) Cuban youths were placed in foster homes and orphanages throughout the U.S during those years.
The largest recorded exodus of unaccompanied minors in the Western Hemisphere was known as Operation Pedro Pan. From December of 1960 to October of 1962 they left Cuba, a few at a time.
The Cuban parents who sent their children out of the country didn’t know if they would ever see their children again. Many did not. About half of them were reunited with their parents. But if you were to talk to most Pedro Pans today, they are nothing but grateful to their parents for making this impossibly heartbreaking sacrifice.
My friend, Christina Diaz Gonzalez has taken on the topic of the Pedro Pans and has crafted an absolutely beautiful story. The book is called The Red Umbrella. It is an historical fiction novel that follows 14 year-old Lucia from her carefree life in a small town in Cuba to an unknown future, without her parents, in the heart of Nebraska.
The story strikes a personal chord with Christina, as both her parents and mother-in-law were part of Operation Pedro Pan.
Carrie and I had the privilege and pleasure of meeting Christina in May at Cuba Nostalgia in Miami. (And yes, as a matter of fact, she is absolutely adorable, but that’s not important right now.)
(Of course, Carrie got up close and personal with the video camera and got Christina to give us some Tiki Tiki love.)
I was so personally delighted with the book (and with Christina, herself) that I asked if I could please promote her book. She graciously agreed.
Christina will be in Southern California this coming weekend.
So, readers, please get yourselves over to one of these signings. Get a copy of this beautiful book. Pick one up for a friend. It’s written in an elegantly simple style and would be most appropriate for a young teen. My Lucy is reading The Red Umbrella as I speak write.
Christina will be at:
SCBWI Annual Conference
July 28 – August 2nd
Los Angeles, CA
Saturday, July 31st at 6:30 pm
Vroman’s Bookstore
695 East Colorado Ave.
Pasadena, CA 91101
Sunday, August 1st at 2pm
Borders Bookstore
100 South Brand Boulevard
Glendale, CA 91204
(818) 241-8099
Please go and meet the lovely Christina and and get yourself a copy of her beautiful book. Tell her Marta sent you.
I loved this book so much that I have procured two copies of The Red Umbrella to give away.
To be entered in the drawing, please click on this link and comment on the same post over at MBFCF or right here on the Tiki Tiki. Answer one or both of the following questions:
I’ll be choosing a winner on Wednesday, July 28, 2010 at 11 am Pacific Time.
By the way, one of the reasons this story impacted me so much…
My brother was a Pedro Pan.
(cross-posted at MBFCF)
A Year of Comida
July 19th, 2010
I am one of those women who loves to cook. But truthfully, I love to cook mostly because I love to eat. The cooking part is just the means to the delicious end.
When I say I love to cook, I mean that I could spend hours watching cooking shows. And I love reading cookbooks in the same way I would read a gripping novel.
I find a recipe that sounds good, look up variations in different cookbooks and then find a way to improve on it and make it my own. Even conversations that center on food get me excited, but that’s not important right now.
Here are some of my favorite dishes that I’ve shared here on the Tiki Tiki this past year and also some of my favorite stories to go with them.
A Match Made in Heaven = Flan + Cake
And now for something completely different…
Ed. Note: The Tiki Tiki Blog turned a year in May 2010. This week, we take a look back at the best of the Tiki Tiki. Please take a moment to comment and share these posts with your friends.
And if you have a favorite recipe, no tengan pena - please share!
Just Keep Swimming.
July 15th, 2010I wonder sometimes how I survived my childhood. Seriously.
When I was very young, my family spent the summers at Varadero Beach. The entire summer. (I know. So cool, right?) You see, it was way too hot in the city (Havana) to just sit around. So we went to the beach house, Villa Obdulia, along with all the cousins.
In retrospect, I don’t remember anyone teaching me to swim.
They dragged me (!) into the water, and occasionally an uncle would let me cling to his back as he walked out to the sand bar. (I could never get there on my own being less than four feet tall, but that’s not important right now.)
But I did have a “salva vida.” A life saver. In the form of… an inflatable duck. An INFLATABLE DUCK, people! (I wish I was making this up.)
After we left Cuba, we continued our habit of spending summers at the beach – sort of. We would drive out to Crandon Park on Key Biscayne in Miami. “El Charquito.” Or The Puddle. No waves. No worries.
My sisters and I spent all of our time in the water.
It had not occurred to anyone at this point to teach us to swim. (I know. Shut up.)
Eventually, we moved to California. We lived in Santa Monica, to be exact. The water at the beach here in So Cal was cold and crazy. And there were waves. Not just the rolling-in-isn’t-that-a-soothing-sound kind of waves. The kind that tumbled you around like a washing machine.
There was an art to dealing with these monsters. You had to get really far out and close to them before they broke. Which meant going out sometimes past where we could touch.
And we got very good at praying “Ay Dios mio! Don’t let me die!”
So I’ll concede that we did get rudimentary How-To-Survive-in-Rough-Surf Lessons. But just good old-fashioned swimming lessons? Not so much.
It wasn’t until a neighbor and friend (who used to take the Cuban girls to the beach) noticed that we were more floundering than floating and so convinced my mom that she really needed to sign us up at the local YMCA for swimming lessons.
I was ten.
I’d like to point out that I had never, ever, been afraid of the water. No matter how much tumbling and near-death experiences we had, we kept going right back in.
Imagine my delight with the new-found ability to propel myself through the water by the synchronized movement of my arms and legs!
Front stroke! Back stroke! Dog paddling! Look at me go!
They even taught us how to dive. I became a diving fool. Two feet was the same as twelve feet. I was fearless.
What a wonderful thing I’d discovered!
And so, those swim lessons at the Y carried me through the rest of my life. Up until now.
We belong to our local YMCA. And from the time my kids were babies I have made sure they’ve had lessons and all four are not only water-safe, but wonderful swimmers.
We go to the Y regularly to swim laps and cool off on the days we’re not at the beach.
In my mind, I was gracefully swishing across the Olympic pool, staying in the middle of the lane lines and rhythmically crossing the length of the pool. Back and forth in a beautifully choreographed ballet.
The truth: I was sputtering and splashing and kept hitting the lane lines, and gulping for breath and swallowing water.
So, I made a cataclysmic decision: I would take adult swim lessons at the Y. (Don’t judge me.)
I found myself in class with seven other people. Many of whom were working through some life-long fears of the water. Which meant that I, with my 5th grade swim lessons, got to have an instructor all to myself.
She helped me finesse my style. Breath steadier, pull harder, kick better. And now I can swim laps like the rest of the cool kids. I even got myself goggles and a cap.
(Umm….no, I am not posting any photos of myself with the cap & goggle combo. Let’s just say I look very much like an alien. That is all. Shut up.)
I still love the water. And it’s only taken me forty-five years to perfect my stroke. ;-)
When did you learn how to swim? (Or did you?) Tell me.
“Just keep swimming.” ~ Dory, from Finding Nemo
(cross posted at MBFCF)
