Sundays at the clinic are routine with exams, blood work, cleaning and no surgeries. My quest for an additional part-time job did yield two hires and two resignations within a month’s time. In other words, I now will stay away from one-doctor practices and if a doctor does not inflate an intubation tube prior to surgery-RUN!!!
I went from damn good values and hardcore work ethics with my current position to horribly bad in terms of practice ethics, lack of aseptic values, and price gouging to name a few. Professionalism and code of ethics were not the values of the two disgruntled doctors I was unlucky enough to encounter. Details of blatant disregard of OSHA standards as well as personal safety need not be recorded in my blog. I know what was abused and neglected; my readers do not need to know. For those who would like to know, be…
This movie is rich with symbolisms that extend beyond Mexican history but its central focus lies with the preparation of food and most importantly how emotions can influence cooking. Mom, my mom’s, cooking is a testament to this influence and although I never had a dish that sent me into sexual arousal (see the movie to know what I referred to) of the most high kind, her food, yes her food, is the comfort of what comfort food is suppose to be about.
Margarita, who is my mom, does not use measuring cups or follows a rigid routine when it comes to preparing her foods. She does not possess the latest food processor or the expensive knives that fit neatly in a wooden block cured with olive oil. No bread maker or Keurig decorates her counter tops. Forget Starbuck’s, Bustelo with cinnamon brewed in a sack is her preferred method of brewing coffee which is done the old way, traced back to her homeland of Honduras where purchasing and brewing coffee in a sack is as common as ordering a Grande latte thingy ma Jing at Starbuck’s.
At times, the cooking is prepared while laughing on the phone in deep conversation or humming a favourite outdated tune from the 50’s.
In earlier years, she sang.
In earlier years, when she sang, her food would leave you speechless.
Nowadays, the food with the humming or the endless talking on the phone leaves you satisfied and questioning if what you ate wasn’t the best ever version of what you dreamt it to be, along with the angels whom blowed their trumpets to announce how good the food made you felt as it made its way to your stomach via tu Corazon.
I refuse to patronize Spanish and Jamaican restaurants.
No food prepared in these restaurants can compare to my mom’s arroz con pollo, cerviche fish, dumplings, coconut beans and rice, pigeon peas, tostones, oxtails…okay…I stop here.
Margarita is a cook from whose heart the cooking stems.
A five- star restaurant cannot compete with that kind of cooking, because home is where the heart is and when the heart involves itself with food the competition to satisfy the stomach is intense. In the home of Margarita, in the kitchen where the food is prepared, there are no underpaid cooks for hire, where the cheapness of the salary is transferred to the animosity felt when preparing the food for the public.
The heart rules and lavishes love freely.
So in honour of my mi madre, Margarita, whom I’ve often taken for granted, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for being who you are and keeping your youngest well fed with food prepared that will forever linger en mi alma.