High Heels & Frijoles

That’s me, when I was a chickie, gathering eggs at my grandpa’s farm in Granada.

For a recent cooking class, my tutee wanted to make rum cake. I don’t have rum cake in my repertoire, and although there are several fortified Nicaraguan desserts and rum is like mother’s milk to the populace, I couldn’t find one in the infamous Nica Joy of Cooking, Doña Angélica. My mom suggested I use our household orange bundt as a base and replace some of the milk with rum. A sensible suggestion, but I Googled “rum cake” anyway. Boxed yellow cake + rum. Not quite the avenue I’d planned on taking.

But then, an actual recipe claiming to be some well-known rum company’s original TOP SECRET recipe…

I like secrets! And I also like that this recipe had 3 sticks of butter plus 1 cup of heavy cream.

I added a few spices to the recipe and, deciding that ¾ cup rum in the cake was stingy (mother’s milk, remember?), made a buttery-burnt sugar-orange-rum glaze. This cake is incredibly moist and stays that way for about a week.  Love it. Love it. Love it.

RUM CAKE with BUTTERED RUM GLAZE

I recommend a 7 or 12-year-old Flor de Caña (Nicaraguan rum) for this cake. If you can’t get Flor, substitute with dark rum of your liking. For an extra burst of orange flavor, process the sugar and orange zest in a food processor for about 1 minute.

Prepare the glaze while the cake is in the oven. It’s best to use a stainless steel saucepan for this recipe—a dark pan will make it difficult to determine the caramel’s color and progress. Avoid a shallow pan as there will be sputtering.

¡Atención! The base of this glaze is caramel, just like the one  on flan.  Please be careful when working with hot sugar—it’s like liquid napalm and you should never be tempted to stick your finger in the pot to have a taste. Unless you’re looking to erase the friction ridges on your fingertips.

For the Cake
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground ginger
¼ teaspoon ground allspice
¼ teaspoon salt
1 cup heavy cream
¾ cup dark rum
1½ cups (3 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1½ cups sugar
1 tablespoon grated orange zest
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 large eggs plus 1 large egg yolk

- Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat it to 350˚F. Butter and flour (or spray with Pam for Baking) a Bundt pan.

- Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, and salt; set aside. Combine the cream and rum in a liquid measuring cup; set aside.

- With an electric mixer (use the paddle attachment if using standing mixer) on medium speed, beat the butter, sugar, and zest until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the egg yolk and beat until fully incorporated. Add the whole eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the vanilla and reduce speed to low. Add the flour mixture in 3 additions, alternating with the cream-rum mixture, stopping once or twice to scrape the sides and bottom of bowl with a rubber spatula. Mix until smooth, about 1 minute.

- Pour the batter into the prepared Bundt pan and bake until a toothpick inserted into the cake comes out clean, about 1 hour.

For the Buttered Rum Glaze
½ cup dark rum
½ cup orange juice (use the zested orange from the cake recipe)
1 cup sugar
¼ cup water
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
¼ teaspoon salt

- Combine the rum and orange juice in a liquid measuring cup; set aside.

- Place the sugar and water in a heavy bottomed, stainless steel, medium saucepan. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium-high heat and cook, gently swirling the saucepan from time to time, until the sugar turns deep amber and begins to smoke, 10 to 12 minutes.

- Immediately remove the saucepan from heat, and slowly and carefully pour in the rum-orange juice mixture. The mixture will sputter quite violently—don’t move the saucepan or stir the mixture. Once the sputtering has subsided, return the saucepan to medium heat, and with a heat-proof rubber spatula, stir until smooth, about 3 minutes. Stir in the butter and salt. Reserve ½ cup of the glaze.

- Once the cake is out of the oven, poke it all over with a metal or wooden skewer. Pour the remaining glaze over the cake and allow it to sit in the pan for 20 minutes before turning out onto a cooling rack.  Brush the cake with the reserved glaze and cool completely before serving.

P.S. This is how good this cake is:

Sometimes all you need is a home cooked meal, one that reminds you of mom making supper when you came home at the end of the school day. Nothing special or out of the ordinary, just something that says, “I’m home and the day is done.”  A Latin American friend and I were talking about how the fanciest meal at a restaurant couldn’t compare with a plate of simple food—and for us that meant anything that could be served with a heaping pile of rice and beans.

Carne chorizada is one of those unpretentious recipes that makes it into the dinner rotation at least twice a month at my house. It never gets boring, despite its brief and humble list of ingredients.

CARNE CHORIZADA
Serves 4 to 6
This recipe can also be made with meatloaf mix or a combination of ground beef and ground pork. If you can’t find fresh baby corn, substitute with 1½ frozen corn kernels. Achiote paste is a common ingredient in Nicaraguan dishes and can be found in Latin American supermarkets or the international aisle of the supermarket. It’s primarily a colorant, so if you can’t find it, don’t worry and proceed with the recipe.

2 pounds 85% lean ground beef
Salt and pepper
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon yellow mustard
1 tablespoon vegetable or corn oil
1 onion, finely chopped
3 small red potatoes, peeled and cut into ¼” dice (about 1½ cups)
2 medium carrots, peeled and cut into ¼” dice (about 1 cup)
8 ears baby corn, cut into crosswise into ¼” rounds
1 tablespoon achiote paste (optional)
3 tablespoons cider vinegar

- Using your hands, combine the beef with 1 teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon pepper, Worcestershire sauce, and mustard in a large bowl.

- Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat until shimmering. Add the onion and cook until it’s softened and translucent, about 5 minutes.  Add the achiote paste (if using) and cook, stirring with a wooden cooking spoon, until the onions are evenly coated, about 1 minute.

- Increase heat to medium-high; add the beef, and cook, continuously stirring and breaking up any lumps, until the beef is no longer pink and most of the released juices have been absorbed. Stir in the vinegar, potatoes, carrots, and baby corn. Cover, reduce heat to low, and simmer until the vegetables are tender, about 15 minutes.  Remove skillet from heat, season to taste with salt and pepper and serve with white rice, black or red kidney beans, corn tortillas, and/or fried plantains.

Iglesia Guadalupe in Granada, the city where I was born.

Though the Aeropuerto Internacional Augusto César Sandino has boasted jet bridges for several years now, I still expect to descend directly from the airplane onto the tarmac. In the 80s, excited family and friends would crowd together mosh pit-style on a terrace that overlooked the landing strip, everyone calling out and waving signs like crazed fans awaiting a celebrity’s arrival on the red carpet. But they were just waiting for their exiled own, coming home for the holidays.

Granada by coche, a horse-drawn carriage.

My trips to Nicaragua are bittersweet, especially during Christmas. My passport still marks me a citizen, and I do call it “home” whenever I refer to it, but Nicaragua hasn’t really been home for a very long time. I’ve moved on, but that first sighting of dusty olive green land from the scratched acrylic windows makes my heart cramp. Memories of trips when my family lived in the U.S. and Mexico during the 80s jumble with those from college breaks and the more recent perfunctory visits.  The childhood jaunts were all fun and adventure; I was mesmerized by ox-pulled carts on the main roads and street vendors pouring sodas into plastic bags—mini-udders that dispensed Coca-Cola. But even in the haze of little-kid wonderment, I knew everything was broken, and it made me deeply sad. It’s sadder today. But, there are uniquely beautiful and wow-worthy people and scenes to be found, and I appreciate them all the more.

San Juan del Sur, the beach town I grew up going to—and now a must-see on tourists’ itineraries.

The new spear fishing technique. We’d gone to the dock and  carefully packed our catch of the day in a large cooler when we spotted these kids. They were much hipper than us.

Red snapper, the catch of the day: $2/lb.

Lunch at El Timón, an establishment in San Juan’s “pueblo.” Fresh-caught fish (snapper, in this photo) is coated in pinol, a corn and cacao-based meal, then fried and served with a tomato and onion sauce (salsa criolla), white rice, and plantain tostones.

To market, to market…

Ripe papayas and watermelons.

Melocotones y limones (star fruit and limes).La asunción de la Santísima Vírgen María. The Virgin Mary is a religious and cultural symbol. This image of the assumption is found everywhere, even in markets.

“La quema del viejo” — a local tradition.  These life-size dolls sit on people’s stoops or front yards, awaiting the new year. “El viejo” is stuffed with gunpowder and will be set on fire at midnight to blow out the old year and ring in the new.

Sunset over the bay of Nacascolo.

Arroz con pollo means chicken-and-rice, but the colorful flavors and ingredients of the popular Nicaraguan dish are lost in this very literal translation.  Also called arroz a la valenciana (probably a nod to Spanish colonizers and paella) arroz con pollo is a mixture of the title ingredients, plus ham, sausage, pimento-stuffed olives, capers, peas, carrots, and bell peppers. Topped with a generous grating of Parmesan cheese and often served with buttered toast, it’s one of my favorite things to eat; maybe it’ll become one of yours, too.

ARROZ con POLLO or ARROZ a la VALENCIANA
Serves 8 to 12
This is a somewhat involved recipe, but it makes piles of food; great for a big family, a casual dinner party, or days’ worth of leftovers. The recipe can be easily cut in half if the yield seems excessive.

Some shortcuts: Rather than cooking carrots with rice, add 2 cups of frozen peas-and-carrots to the mixture.  Buy a rotisserie chicken and low-sodium chicken broth instead of poaching your own fresh chicken pieces.

For the Chicken:
4 pounds bone-in, skin-on chicken pieces or 1 4- to 5-pound chicken, cut into 8 pieces
Salt
1 large onion, peeled and cut into wedges
1 green bell pepper, seeded and quartered
4 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
2 teaspoons black peppercorns

- Place chicken pieces in large soup pot or Dutch oven. Season with salt and cover with cold water (chicken should be submerged 2 inches). Add onion, bell pepper, garlic, and peppercorns. Bring to a boil over high heat, then immediately reduce heat to medium-low and simmer until chicken is cooked through (temperature should read 160˚F), 30 to 35 minutes.

- Transfer chicken to large bowl. When it’s cool enough to handle, remove and discard the skin and bones and shred the chicken into bite-sized pieces. The chicken may be poached one day in advance: To store, add 3 cups broth to shredded chicken, cool to room temperature, cover with plastic, and refrigerate.

- Strain broth and reserve. Discard solids.

For the Rice:
2 tablespoons butter
1 medium onion, finely chopped
2 teaspoons salt
2 cups long-grain white rice
2 medium carrots, peeled and cut into small dice
2 tablespoons tomato paste
4 cups chicken broth

- Melt 2 tablespoons butter in a medium saucepan.  Add the onion and salt and cook until softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in rice, carrots, and tomato paste. Add broth and bring to a boil. Continue to boil until most of the liquid has evaporated and you can see small bubbles on the surface (see How to Make Rice).  Reduce heat to lowest setting, cover, and cook for 15 minutes. Fluff rice with chopsticks or fork and remove from heat.

For the Arroz con Pollo:
2 tablespoons butter
8 ounces Lil’ Smokies or Kielbasa sausage, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1 green or red bell pepper, seeded and finely chopped
2 tablespoons tomato paste
¼ cup ketchup
Shredded chicken (see above)
¼ pound deli ham, chopped
1/3 cup capers, drained
1/3 cup pimento-stuffed olives, sliced
1 ½ cups frozen peas
Cooked rice (see above)

- Melt butter in a large skillet or Dutch oven. Add sausage and sauté until browned, about 5 minutes. Transfer to plate.

- Add onion and bell pepper to now empty skillet and cook until softened, about 8 minutes. Add tomato paste, chicken, ham, capers, olives, peas, and rice, stirring to combine thoroughly. Cook, stirring occasionally, to allow flavors to meld, 10 to 15 minutes.  Season to taste with salt.

- Serve with grated Parmesan cheese and white buttered toast.

Arroz aguado (watery or soft rice) is a dish I was none too happy to eat when I was little. Its mushy texture and bland flavors were well suited to the flu-ish and hungover, but not to people whose tastebuds were unimpaired and stomachs weren’t queasy. Arroz aguado is basically chicken soup to which rice has been added and cooked until its blown out and soft. The harsh winds and chilly temperatures of early spring have made me reconsider this recipe, however, and it is now a very welcome addition to the table.

ARROZ AGUADO

1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 onion, chopped
3 celery stalks, thinly sliced
3 carrots, cut into ½”-thick slices
2 whole canned plum tomatoes, sliced into ½”-thick slices, plus 2 tablespoons juice
4 cloves garlic, smashed
Salt and pepper
2 bone-in, skin-on split chicken breasts, cut in half crosswise
4 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs (or 4 drumsticks)
4 cups chicken broth
3 cups water
1 cup long-grain white rice
2 sprigs fresh mint
3 medium red potatoes, scrubbed and cut into 1” cubes
1 medium zucchini, quartered lengthwise and cut into ½”-thick slices

Bright garnishes like mint, cilantro, and lime juice will brighten the arroz aguado — top each bowl or pass at the table.

¼ cup fresh mint, chopped
¼ cup fresh cilantro, chopped
2 limes, cut into wedges
1 ripe avocado, cut into ¼” cubes
Pickled jalapeño chiles

-Heat oil in large Dutch oven or soup pot over medium-high heat until shimmering. Add onion, celery, carrots, tomatoes and juice, garlic, and 1 teaspoon salt and cook, stirring, until onion is softened, 5 to 7 minutes.

-Season chicken with salt and pepper and add to pot. Add broth, water, rice, and sprigs of fresh mint; stir and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low and maintain a low simmer, skimming surface from time to time, and cook until chicken is cooked through, about 45 minutes.With tongs, remove chicken and place in bowl. Remove and discard mint sprigs.

-Stir potatoes and zucchini into soup and cook until tender, about 15 minutes.

-Meanwhile, using 2 forks, carefully remove and discard skin and bones. Shred chicken and return to pot. Adjust seasonings with salt and pepper.

-Serve in bowls and garnish with mint and cilantro. Serve with limes, avocado, and jalapeños.

Note: When reheating leftovers, add a bit more broth to the stew as the rice may become blown out as it rests.

I’ve always puzzled over the name of this dish: pastel de maleta. Pastel, in Spanish, means pie, and maleta, in various Spanish-speaking countries means suitcase. So this preparation’s name translates very literally into suitcase pie. It sounds more like a Shel Silverstein poem than something you eat, but there you have it. Suitcase pie is a savory jelly roll, a butter and lard-based crust stuffed with minced pork, raisins, capers, and hardboiled eggs – a filling not-too distantly related to empanadas of various Latin American countries.

Curious about other meanings of maleta, I went to my trusty diccionario de la lengua española (the Spanish version of the OED) and among the definitions I found were: backpack (in Cuba), a hunchback (also in Cuba), not having a clear sense of what one is doing (in Argentina and Uruguay), a person’s back (in Peru), sickness, person who performs a certain task with ineptitude, an untalented bullfighter, an evil person (in Guatemala), to be in a foul mood (in Chile).

I think you’ll agree with me that none of these make any sense, so we’ll stick to the Nica nonsense and keep referring to it as suitcase pie. Here are my two cents about it: Maybe since it’s a neat little package people used to put it in their suitcases when they traveled.

Aside from wondering where its name originates, I wanted to make pastel de maleta because I haven’t eaten it in at least twenty years, but the memory of it lingers. I have some several-times-removed aunts that own a bakery in Granada, the town my family is from, called El Condor. It is from this well-respected institution that the pastel I remember is from. I lust after their recipe, but it’s one of those top-secret, classified ones, and I may never come to possess it.

I had to make do with this version, which although didn’t attain Condoresque perfection, yielded very satisfactory results.

PASTEL DE MALETA
Adapted and translated from 50 años en la cocina by Angélica de Vivas

*(Please note that I have translated this verbatim and therefore may sound funny. I added notes in parentheses where I found necessary).

Crust:

2 C. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. granulated sugar
¼ C. butter (½ stick)
¼ C. lard
1 egg
Orange juice (to bind)

Combine and mix dry ingredients; incorporate the lard and butter, in the usual manner, till it’s divided into small particles; add the egg, mixing well; add orange juice as needed; extend dough on a floured surface, in a rectangular shape, ¼” – thick.*
(For those unused to “the usual manner”: whisk together the dry ingredients, then cut in cold butter and cold lard. You may use a pastry cutter or two knives for this purpose. Once the butter/flour/lard resembles small peas, add the egg and mix. Add the orange juice a teaspoon at a time to avoid over-moistening the dough. I would suggest rolling the dough into a ball, wrapping it plastic wrap, and allowing it to rest in the refrigerator about 30 minutes prior to rolling out).

Filling:

1 ½ lbs. pork butt
1 onion, in quarters
1 green bell pepper, in pieces
4 garlic cloves
salt + pepper
1/3 C. butter
1 large onion, minced
1 large red bell pepper, minced
3 eggs, hard-boiled and chopped
1/3 C. raisins
1/3 C. capers
2 TBSP. Worcestershire sauce
1 TBSP. granulated sugar
¼ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
salt, pepper, and chile to taste (I used sriracha in place of “chile”)

Boil the pork butt together with the 5 following ingredients (onion, green bell pepper, garlic cloves, salt & pepper); when it becomes soft, remove it and process it; strain and reserve the broth.

Melt the butter and fry in it the minced onion, the red bell pepper and the pork, for 5 minutes; add the remaining ingredients and mix well; add a bit of the reserved broth, if it’s drying out on you.

Spread the filling over the extended dough and roll it up like a “brazo gitano” (she means a jelly roll – we call a jelly roll a “gypsy arm.” Whoever came up with that one had quite the macabre imagination). Fold the ends inwards and seal them with a little bit of water; place it on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and varnish it (the roll) with 1 egg yolk beaten with 1 tsp. water; bake it at 350˚F, for about 1 hour.

It may be eaten hot, or at room temperature. (For 12 people).
(I suggest eating it at room temperature – it tastes so much better.)

Many, many years ago, my parents would pick me up from school and take me to a lovely restaurant with an even lovelier view of a lake. Dressed in the dark green plaid jumper that was my uniform, I marched in behind mom and dad as the maître d’ gushed over us all and led us gracefully to what dad had at some point decided was the best table.

This was a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths, ice sculptures of swans, waiters whose shoes shone and smiles sparkled as they poured bubbly water and the fruitiest fruit conga I have ever sipped. A bread basket worthy of kings and queens would carried out moments after my chair had been pushed up to the table and my mouth would water as I gazed at minuature baguettes, flaky croissants, hearty rolls of nut-studded wheat, and long, crunchy grissini. After making a careful and difficult selection, beautiful pale butter ridged like the most perfect seashell would be delicately placed on my plate.

Lunch was usually filet mignon with béarnaise, which I would spoon on without any qualms…all this luxury, just for me. The filet was always accompanied by pommes soufflé, and there was nothing like those golden, crispy pillows of fried potato. I knew I was a lucky girl to be allowed to eat this way.

But, the best was yet to come. Enter The Dessert Cart. Aside from the deboned chicken that I’ve written about time and time again, The Dessert Cart is for me the ne plus ultra. There is absolutely nothing that compares to it. I dream of owning a dessert cart (and a wet bar, but we’ll talk about that later) and loading it up with chic sweetings. The Dessert Cart at this particular restaurant was all wonder and delight: floating islands, baked Alaska, dense chocolate cake, goblets of ripe red berries, sauce boats, and my favorite, profiteroles. Three perfect puffs would present themselves, lightly golden and starting to ooze out ice cream filling, and then, the waiter would pour the hot chocolate sauce over them, coating them slowly and seductively.

My Mister’s grandmother’s dessert cart.

There are certain fruits back home that are not easy to come by in the US, even in the southernmost extremes of its geography. Some, such as nancite, a cranberry-sized fruit of bright yellow skin and white interior with a gaping belly button that exudes a heady and nauseating stench, I am happy to be safely away from, but others like sapote and níspero I crave. Sapote is rather like an avocado in shape and flesh texture. The exterior of the footballesque fruit is brown an rough, but the inside is buttery, smooth, and rich terracotta orange in color. A glossy black seed is tightly wedged into the velvety flesh. Sapote is for the persevering only, as it will frequently be filled with wriggling white maggots or be ripe to the point of fizzy fermentation. Should you chance on a perfect one, though, you will be rewarded. Decadent, it coats the palate and tongue with buttercream texture and aromas of exotic dark chocolate and mellow spices.

Níspero skin is also dull brown and coarse, and while its interior is not as rich and smooth as sapote, it does share with it unusual flavors. Níspero is grainy and fibrous, like a cat’s tongue. Redolent of chocolate and moss, it smells of earth dampened by rain, moistened cedar, and secret hiding places.

Other fruits, like guayaba and jocote were not yet in season, and so I was able only to have the former in jelly form and the latter in preserved from. Many of you are probably familiar with guava paste or guava and cream cheese pastries as the flavor combination is rather popular. I never tire of the taste, perhaps because like Proust’s madeleine, it reminds me of childhood. My mother and I used to have “tea time,” whose fare always consisted of toast spread with butter and jalea de guayaba and topped with a slice of cheese.

Jocotes bring to mind olives with great big pits. During semana santa (Holy Week) they are available everywhere, their bare-branched mother trees decorated with clusters of the sour green fruits. My grandfather has a farm in Granada and during semana santa huge basketfuls of mangoes and jocotes would be brought from there and lined up down the corridor. I would eat one after the other, wincing as the too sour ones wore down the enamel on my teeth and sucking greedily on the ripe red ones that were a prize to find buried in the multitude. Jocotes en miel are the preserved variation and it is all I could get in early February. If March jocotes recall the hot months, these honeyed bites are bits of waning summer.

Aside from telling you that I am – or was, until very recently – a culinary student I have told you very little about myself. Here’s a biographical tidbit: I am from Nicaragua, and more specifially, the small colonial city of Granada, “La Gran Sultana”. I grew up here and there, and have lived in the U.S. for the past ten years, but roots remain planted at approximately 12° 10′ N 86° 15′ W.

One of the things I hope to do someday is a thorough research project on the food of my country: why do we eat what we eat? What is really native to us? Who taught us to cook? So many questions about what we consume and why that I would like to answer.

I visited last week, and although ten days is but a brief sojourn, I tried to eat as much as possible. Most of the time my stomach was filled to capacity, but in the interest of scientific investigation, I chewed bravely on. This is merely a brief overview of my native cuisine, but I hope to add more information, as well as recipes, in the not too distant future.

Rice and small red kidney beans are on the menu three times a day. For breakfast, they are mixed and fried together to make gallopinto (literal translation spotted or painted rooster, alluding most likely to the reddish tint that roosters have which resembles the final product). Gallopinto is often accompanied by eggs, either revueltos (scrambled) or as they say in my grandmother’s house, perdidos (lost) or fried, as well as by tortillas or bread. You could also go the full monty and have fried plantains or maduros (sweet, ripe plantains) and cheese, either fresh or fried.

Gallopinto and tortilla

Cuajada and queso fresco, two traditional fresh milk cheeses.

At lunch and dinner, the rice and beans will be presented separately at the table, but there they always are. Growing up, meals served at home were of an international variety, but regardless of what we were having, rice and beans would be at the table. My mother and I always fought against two starches on the same plate, for example, if we were having lasagna there was no way we were going to have R&B there as well, but my younger brothers waved all propriety aside and would have them at the end of the meal, as “dessert”, they’d exclaim.

Corn products are as many can guess, a staple, tortillas being the most evident example. Most people buy theirs from vendors selling from humble roadside shacks. At under $1.00 for 10 tortillas, they are one of the more affordable food items available in a country that is among the poorest in the world.

A tasty local treat is quesillo: Quesillo is string cheese that bears a striking resemblance to mozzarella. A braid of it is wrapped in a tortilla, smothered with sour cream (our version being much more liquid than the US variety) and a slaw of pickled onions. The taco-like roll is placed in a slender plastic bag, and voilà, you’re ready to eat. The best part of the plastic bag is that you can tie it, cut off the bottom end, and finish eating your quesillo from that side, the better to enjoy the sour cream and pickled onions that have pooled at the bottom.

Corn is also the basis for a number of tamales: tamal pizque, of a greyish green hue that comes from the ash that’s incorporated with the corn; the sweeter and more tender yoltamal (which I unfortunateley couldn’t get while in Nicaragua); and nacatamal, the mothere of all tamales: weighing in at at least two pounds, this huge tamal cotains corn masa, pork, potatoes, rice, tomatoes, prunes, and raisins. It is a delicious and incredibly filling meal.

Tamal pizque.

The mister’s grandmother treated us to one of my favorite things; chicharrón con yuca. Pork cracklings are paired with steamed yuca and topped with a slaw of cabbage, tomatoes, white vinegar, and tiny, spicy congo chiles, which are the only chilies we use and never in great quantities. If bought at a stand at the market or a park, chicharrón con yuca will be served on a chagüite, or plantain tree, leaf.

We were also treated to fried plantain chips, grilled meat kabobs, and my favorite, maduros en gloria (sweet plantains in glory, literally, but figuratively meaning that they’ve died and have gone to heaven): the sweet plantains are fried, then smothered with cream and cheese and baked for a bit in the oven. Really, you must try it. You can find the sweet plantains at your local market (*do NOT buy green ones and expect them to ripen. Buy the yellow ones and wait for them to ripen further, until the skins are black as this will ensure they are tender, rich, and perfectly sweet). There is a recipe from a traditional Nicaraguan cookbook, 50 años en la cocina, by Angélica de Vivas, that I will try at home with American ingredients and post on the site as soon as I can.

Maduros en gloria

More soon,

HH&F