When my mother moved to the States in the late ’70s, she couldn’t imagine a future where having bilingual kids would be beneficial. Although this was California, it wasn’t exactly the progressive, oceanside hippie enclave an immigrant may have expected in those years. Despite being a legal resident from birth, she never felt entirely American. Even the local Latin community didn’t fully accept her: her Caribbean accent and cadence were different from their Mexican inflection. She felt a lot of pressure to assimilate, and so she never taught my sisters and me Spanish.
As a teenager, I took it upon myself to learn more about her home. I read about the combination of influences that contributed to Puerto Rico’s own culinary traditions. Root vegetables used by the native tribes, capers and chorizo from Spanish imperialism, pork and plantains from African slaves, cheese and beef from American military occupation. With a little help from my mom and abuela, I taught myself how to cook the dishes they grew up on: mofongo, tostones, picadillo, arroz con gandules.
Now, every Christmas, I make pasteles in my Oakland apartment. Similar to tamales, pasteles consist of starchy masa (made with taro root and plantains instead of corn) filled with seasoned beef. Instead of corn husks, they’re wrapped in banana leaves. My wife is a vegetarian, but luckily my family is openminded about my less-than-traditional, meatless take on this dish.
Lots of spices, lots of oil, a beer, and a grapefruit seltzer later, and we had 18 pasteles wrapped and ready to go down to Fresno, where my folks have lived in the same house for decades.
This morning I received a text from my mom, thanking me for keeping her traditions alive. You’re welcome, Mom.
