Most families in Cuba celebrated Christmas and the Epiphany ,Three King’s Day and the twelfth day of Christmas.  If we didn’t get our favorite toy Christmas day we could look forward to El Día de Los Reyes Magos (Three Kings Day) and hope that whatever Santa forgot, the kings would remember on their long camel ride to our homes.  Double magic!

On Christmas eve of 1958 my grandmother’s house was filled with music.  My uncle Pedro Luis played the piano by ear better than many play after years of instruction and I, along with many aunts and uncles and my grandparents, stood beside the Christmas tree singing along to the beautiful melodies he played.

It was rumored that Fidel was coming soon and Batista was on the way out.  There was hope for change in the country, and for our family, there was the joy of being together.

That Christmas eve was the first Christmas eve I got to stay up and have dinner with the adults.  My uncle Percy toasted every member of the family with his usual jocularity, and before long everyone around the table joined in laughter.  I was enjoying the moment and anticipating the gifts that would be waiting for me the next morning.

Christmas day was truly magical.  I got every present I asked for.  Three Kings Day would be no less special.  It was the day when I always received books to read during the year; the books that had become my favorite gifts of all.

On the sixth day of Christmas, December 31, 1958, President Fulgencio Batista fled the country during the night.  On the seventh day of Christmas Cubans awoke without a president.  Many of the people who were close to Batista left also.  Piti and her family lived very close to one of his trusted advisors.  There had been gunfire.  Later in the day Piti and her family walked to the advisor’s house and found the door open.  When they walked in they found the table still set, the wine glasses full, food served, and no one in sight.  The occupants had fled in the night.

The Cuban people knew Fidel had won and the celebrations began.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, January 6, 1959, the three kings brought me my beloved books.  Among them, The Diary of Anne Frank.  The three kings were not the only ones that arrived that day.  It was also the day the young men, newly arrived from the mountains with their rosaries around their necks and their guns resting on their shoulders marched in procession on our street.  They were the newly anointed kings bearing the gift of freedom.  What a day filled with magic and hope!  What a day to be Cuban!

By the first day of Christmas of 1959, a year later, things had changed.  No one came to celebrate Christmas eve at my grandmother’s house.  Hundreds of people had died by firing squad.  The terror of Batista’s day had paled in comparison with the cruelty that our “saviors” now displayed.  It was quiet in the house.  No tree, no music, no magic….no gifts.  My eleventh Christmas had been my last.  It had been the last Christmas for many Cubans.  The Diary of Anne Frank, my present on the twelfth day of Christmas the year before, had become my constant companion.  Anne knew what it was like.  I began keeping a diary that at times read eerily like hers.  Two girls caught in the incomprehensible repression created by madmen.  Anne was my new friend and inspiration for many Christmases to come.  Later in life I found out that Anne’s father Otto had once applied for and been denied refuge in Cuba.  The twists and turns of fate.  Had he been successful, another boogeyman would eventually have haunted Anne’s dreams.

Christmas has never been the same for me, and although I don’t like to admit it, there is always a sense of nostalgia that accompanies the holidays, even when I’m surrounded by my loved ones and have everything to be thankful for.  I suffer from a touch of Scroogeness or Scroogitis of spirit.  A whisper of Baah Humbug I find difficult to tolerate and just as difficult to shed.

Christmas eve is almost here again. For a few hours I will experience its magic through the eyes of my eight year old twin granddaughters and for those few hours the fog of sadness will disperse.  I will watch the girls play with their new toys, their beautiful blue eyes shining like the bearded men’s crucifixes shone in the sun on that sixth day of Christmas in Cuba so long ago, and I will pray that their innocence can be preserved and that their great grandparent’s sacrifice of sending their daughter alone to her new country will allow them to keep the magic in their Christmases until the day they die.

When they are eleven I will gift them with the Diary of Anne Frank. I hope that they learn the many lessons the book has to teach them, without having to become Anne’s intimate friends.

These twelve days of Christmas, treasure all that you are, all that you have, and pray that tolerance and understanding become a way of life in the world.  Pray for peace, pray for the bloodshed everywhere to end, so that no more children have to lose the magic of their Christmases.

Blessings to all my friends and readers.

Adrianne

The Chronicles of Narnia stories were favorites when I was growing up.  I have seen all the movies so far with and without my grandchildren.  As I did in my youth, I continue to find myself transported to a magical land where, for a time, I am a child again. There are no intrusive thoughts, no worries; just the sheer pleasure of being entertained by a world of innocence and magic where good and evil are well- defined concepts.

The world in black and white is an impossible construct for a psychotherapist to contemplate, and I am always surprised at how easily people cling to such a world regardless of how many years they have spent on this mostly blue, ocean- covered earth.

My recent post about Ché and my work with Martín Guevara has upset many Pedro Pans and a few non Pedro Pan Cuban exiles.  Their comments are not posted on the blog, but sent to my website email.  I find that most people prefer that mode of communication rather than making public comments.  Clearly, I welcome both.  I am humbled by the amount of people that are reading my blog and are interested in our Cuban story, and I welcome all opinions, not only the ones that agree with my posts.

I have been accused of betraying my father’s memory by collaborating with a Guevara, and of comparing Ché to a Jesus Christ figure.  “Saying anything positive about such a monster is wrong”, said one reader.  “How could you see good in the man responsible for imprisoning your father?” said another.  “You are either with us or against us, there is no room for a Pedro Pan who admires someone like Ché and mixes with someone like his nephew”, adds yet another.

One of the challenges I faced as a young girl was precisely the dissonance between the Ché I began to know and the assassin I knew him to be.  It was perhaps one of my own first challenges to black and white thinking and to the painful conclusion that things in this world were seldom so simple.  I say painful because life is so much easier when good and evil are on either side of a clear demarcation line and one’s spirit does not have to struggle with shades of gray.  When one is able to walk the earth under the illusion of certainty and has not yet stepped into the Socratic truth of “I only know that I know nothing.”

I cannot offer a rational non- clinical explanation of how it was possible for a man who was indeed the murderer of many to also be an extremely charismatic human being capable of appearing near angelic in a personal encounter.  This was not only my experience but also that of an old friend and of my cousin who also met him and were likewise affected by his countenance despite the pain he was responsible for causing in their own lives.  It was precisely that dissonance that led me to ask his nephew Martín the question that eventually led to our collaboration.  And I have to say that one of the rewards of our collaboration has been that both of us have discovered in depth the difference between the man and the myth.

I find it a very powerful statement for a Pedro Pan and a Guevara to collaborate on a book together.  Our collaboration has required both of us to suspend disbelief, to listen to uncomfortable truths, to expand our knowledge of others and ourselves.  It has united us in a common purpose about which we hope to speak together around the world: our commitment to human rights and peace.  We are bound by the hope that if and when Cuba is free again, the same mistakes we made in the past will not be repeated.  Neither of us wants to see a new blood bath begin the reign of a new regime, while we both recognize the necessity for justice.

Martin is a gift to Cubans, not a liability.  He has had to free himself at no small cost from the black and white thinking that would have demanded his loyalty to his family, in order to tell his truth to the world.  Yet all some see is that he was Ché’s nephew, and by virtue of the sins of his uncle he is sent to stand on the black side of that relentless demarcation line.

We Pedro Pans and Cuban exiles in general are drawn together by a common experience, but we are not all alike.  Some were frozen in place in those metal wombs that bore us once again within the same existence, some remain so affected by the experience that viewing a picture of Fidel or Ché re-triggers their trauma.  Some have managed to come to peace with their circumstances, some spend their lives in yearning, some in acceptance and joy.  Our diversity is not a point of separation, in my view, but our different reactions to the same stressors yet another example that nothing is really black and white.

Narnia will forever be a place of wonderful escape. Respite from the relentless challenge of reality.  It is a wonderful place to visit, a place in which to remember the magic that accompanies all of us mortals in our journey through our lives regardless of the colors that we see.

Website address: http://authoradriannemiller.com/

I have recently arrived back from an extended trip to Miami, FL where I attended the 50th anniversary of the Pedro Pan flights that brought so many of us Cuban children to the U.S.

I arrived alone at the Miami Beach Resort Hotel where the event was held.  I thought it was appropriate, arriving alone at this venue to commemorate the day when I had arrived alone in Miami.  I was about to reunite with two cousins and several grade school friends, some of whom had disappeared from my life when I was a child in Cuba during the time of secrets.

I asked the cab driver to let me out on the sidewalk in front of the hotel instead of at the hotel door.  The long driveway in front of the hotel was crowded with cars delivering other Pedro Pans to their destination.  I had plenty of time and walked up the driveway slowly, scanning faces for any sign of recognition and taking in the Miami fashion scene unfolding before my eyes.  I am used to Northwest fashion now, with its emphasis on comfort.  I have grown to love lose clothing and flat shoes.  Standing near the front steps to the hotel I admired the long gowns floating past me and wondered how so many women my age managed to balance themselves on four inch heels.

I closed my eyes for a moment and felt the warm salty air all around me, caressing my skin.  Memories of Cuba on the edge of my mind becoming visible, I chose not to allow them entry, opened my eyes and walked up the steps.  The moment I stepped inside I felt the electricity in the air.  Fifty years of yearning to see familiar faces, cries of recognition, tears of joy and of sadness for all the time that had been missed.  Eyes searching, darting from face to face and wearing a look of kindness and love even when recognition eluded them.  Fifty years later….would we recognize each other’s faces?  The pre- dinner cocktail party was in full swing and as I walked up the steps to get my name tag I was swept into the arms of friends I had kept up with or reunited with recently, and we found ourselves facing a society photographer.  Smiles. Memories of other society photographers when we were children of prominent families and our pictures appeared in the Retrograbado de la Marina.  Hugs followed.  We agreed to meet later at the banquet table where ten of us would sit together for the first time in forever.

Voices beckoned from the noisy ballroom.  Words bounced off the walls and flew around trembling like bubbles about to burst. Is this what walking into heaven would be like?  Recognition, embrace, words and sobs spilling out as the heart reconnected with long lost loved ones?  Would joy like this greet us?  Is that why so many of my hospice patients looked blissful as they took their last breath?  I approached a table to get a snack and heard “Yolie!!”  my old name…I ran towards the voice and into the arms of my cousin Seida and her sister Sonia.  Indescribable joy and tears at the years we had missed.  The miracle of love that continues to fill me with awe.  I hadn’t lost even one little bit of the love I felt for them then- if anything, I loved them more!  And so it went with other reunions that night…Emy, Adela, Yoli, Elena, Ana, Beatriz.

Before dinner we gathered.  I am not sure of the attendance but there were ten to a table and we were on table 58.  A wonderful dinner followed and then we were treated to Cuban music by a very good Cuban band.  Time didn’t stop, it flew by entirely too fast;  but what a gift the night was for all of us!  What a wonderful opportunity we had, not only to reunite but to thank all those responsible for our celebration in freedom!

On the first page of our program our sentiments were made clear:

“We the children of Pedro Pan offer our heartfelt thanks, love and appreciation

to our Pedro Pan heroes on both sides of the Florida Straights for their unselfish

sacrifice to give us the opportunity to live in freedom

and help us achieve our dreams.”

Encounter With The Past

On November 13 2010, the children gathered to remember.  Hundreds of Pedro Pan airlift survivors met at the Miami Beach Resort Hotel in Miami, FL, to commemorate 50 years since the beginning of the Pedro Pan flights that brought us from Cuba to the United States.

The atmosphere was electric with anticipation.  Many of us would be reunited for the very first time since we were torn asunder from the land of our birth by circumstances beyond our control;  since our childhoods were suspended somewhere between the island of our birth and the country that welcomed us.

We were not immigrants in this country, but political refugees whose parents had risked losing us forever rather than relinquishing their rights as parents to raise us in a land that no longer had our best interest at heart.  The magnitude and beauty of that sacrifice made in a combination of desperation and hope was at the center of our Pedro Pan celebration.

So many years later as classmates from Cuba, campmates from Miami, and many  who had been sent to homes, schools, and orphanages throughout the country fell into each other’s arms, we embraced fully aware that we have made it safely through our journeys against all odds.  Our faces are the shadows of our childhood selves, our countenance a little worse for wear, our waists a little wider, our hair a little whiter.

But as the memories of our times together came rushing back, at the sudden encounter of our eyes, the years fell away and sweetest memories became our fast companions for the night.

Our smiles are not without a touch of sadness as we remember those who loved us so unselfishly, most of them now buried far away from the land of their birth.  The majority of our parents were able to join us in exile sooner or later, sometimes many years after we left.  They had not dreamt of coming here.  They had already lived in a land of plenty and opportunity and had it not been for Fidel Castro they would have lived out their lives in the country of their birth as most people choose to do.

We took the time to thank those who started Operation Pedro Pan and those who received us in this country before beginning a celebration filled with food and Cuban music, the music that we still resonate with after such a long time, the music that our limbs and hips know by heart.

The room was filled with stories of profiles in courage, men and women with good hearts and an uncanny instinct for survival.  I’m not sure it if was gratitude that demanded we put one foot in front of the other and somehow make a life.  Or if  having already used the option of flight all we had left to us was the option to fight- to fight to survive the transplant to our new home without our families.

Sharing these few hours so many years after we boarded the airplanes where we left our childhoods, we found ourselves feeling like children and paused to contemplate the powerful forces that had been at work in the lives of  the Pedro Pans.  These were sweet and healing hours during which we created more good memories to accompany us on the rest of our journey.

Life went back to “normal” in Miami very quickly as we went back to resume our lives.  But something had changed.  There had been souls reuniting under the Miami moon the night before.  The world felt different and lighter, a little kinder place in which to dwell.

No Cuban reunion is without its food, and although these dishes were not served at our dinner, I thought you might like to give more of Piti’s recipes a try:

Carne Asada

(Cuban Pot Roast)

1 3 or 4 lb Eye Round or Rump Roast

1 large onion, sliced

1 or 2 tbspn of Spanish paprika (depending how much you like paprika)

2 garlic cloves

1 cup of beef bouillon

½ cup of wine

1 bacon slice

About ¼ lb of ham, cut in small cubes

1 lb potatoes, cut into medium pieces

Salt and pepper

• Cut some small slices into the beef and insert pieces of ham and bacon.
• Marinate the meat with a mixture of orange juice and lemon, onions, salt, pepper about 2 or 3 hours in the refrigerator.

• Pat the meat dry with a paper towel, and over medium heat brown it on all sides in a little olive oil using a large deep pot.
• Add the onions and cook it until the onion starts softening.
• Add the paprika and stir quickly.  Add the water and wine and bring it to a boil.
• Lower the heat to medium/low and cover it with a lid.
• Cook for about 2 or 2 ½ hours.  Every 25 or 30 minutes turn the meat over to a different position.
• Pierce the beef with a fork and if no liquid comes out, it’s ready.
• If you like to add potatoes, they should be added about 1 ½ hours after it started boiling.
• If you like, about ½ hour before the meat is ready, you can take it out and cut it in medium thick slices and return them to the pot.  This helps the cooking process.

This is Abuela’s recipe that she gave me and my friend Celia Maria many years ago.  Of all her recipes, this is my favorite.  I used to dream of coming home when I moved to Miami in 1975 and ask her to make it for me.  I do love Spanish paprika (Pimenton) and I always asked her to add it.  You can decide how much you want to put in yourself.

Empanada

¾ lb pork

1 lb veal

¾ lb of chorizo

1 medium onion

1 small/medium green pepper

1 8 oz. can of tomato sauce

2 tbspn of dry wine

1/8 tspn of each – oregano and cumin

1 bay leaf

Spanish olives

Capers

2 hard-boiled eggs, cut up

4 8 oz packages of Crescent Rolls

• Mix all the ingredients except the eggs and rolls.
• Cook it all at medium heat until the meat is cooked well, about 20/30 minutes.
• Spread two Crescent rolls on a lightly oiled cookie sheet making sure you close or punch all the holes together.
• Add the cooked meat mixture on top and spread evenly.
• Sprinkle the cut up eggs on top of the meat mixture.
• Spread the other 2 rolls and place it on top to cover the “empanada”.  Press the edges together.
• Make some small slits on the top (so it will breathe)
• Bake it at 375 for about 10 minutes.
• Lower the temperature to about 325 and cook it for about 20 minutes longer or until it turns golden*.
• Let it rest for about 5 or 10 minutes and then cut in individual portions.

*Watch it carefully so it doesn’t burn.

Tita used to make this recipe.  She gave me the recipe and I’ve made it a few times.  I don’t know if it’s a typical Spanish recipe or has been adopted  with Cuban flavor, but it’s quite tasty and easy to make.

About two years ago I was shopping at Washington Mall in Beaverton, OR, with my friend Judy.  We are good friends who enjoy each other’s company.  A visit to the makeup counter, always a staple of our outing to a mall, marked the moment when we realized that we had gone past ma’m and onto the next stage.  Oblivious to our ages, we were trying on lipstick and laughing when a young woman walked towards us and said: “You girls are soooo cute!”  We were take aback by the condescension in her voice and the way she spoke to us, as if we had suddenly entered our second childhood.  Were we going to be treated like toddlers again?  Would people now begin to act as if we couldn’t hear, see, dream, be productive?

Because I am an active dreamer and a creative person, I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about how I am perceived.  I have noticed that my “marionette lines” are looking much deeper than they once did and that my neck has lost some of its former tone.  At times I pass a mirror and wonder who the woman is that just went past, as she looks much older than I feel.  Her aging face says nothing about her vitality.  She is not I, yet she is,

I began to realize that my exile had reached another level.  As if being estranged from my land had not been enough, I was now rapidly disappearing from the earth.  Outside of an occasional “nice young man” offering me a seat, and kind looks from strangers (or were they sad  commiserating looks for my lost youth?), I began to notice that I was walking through this earth without being noticed.  I was fast disappearing from the land of the living without having died.

My age began to become an issue to my granddaughters, who at eight years old have begun a conversation about the subject of death and once in a while ask me how much longer I’m going to be alive.  They were worried that grandma was getting old, and they didn’t want to lose her.

The only person who seemed oblivious to my aging face was my husband, who has always managed to be connected with my essence and who finds me beautiful with more or less wrinkles, more or less pounds…a gift of my second time around, he truly loves me “just the way I am”.

I am not against plastic surgery.  I had a breast reduction when I was younger, truly one of the best gifts I ever gave myself.  I remember waking up from the surgery and being able to breathe.  That surgery restored my ability to exercise, and to see my toes from a standing position for the first time in years!  I began to consider a face lift, particularly after I learned that I was going to be on television for an important interview with Martin Guevara, my collaborator , on a program that has nineteen million viewers.  But try as I might, the fear of not looking like myself after an irreversible process, of finding yet another albeit new stranger in the mirror, gave me pause.

Let me preface the rest of this post by saying that I come from a long line of really vain women who never hesitated to improve their looks by any means possible.  So perhaps it was inevitable that I would consider doing “something” about my face.

I made an appointment to give myself a temporary new face.

I agonized, examined my conscience as I had done since I was little, and then an agent I know said to me: “You know, you sell a lot more books if you’re young looking….” She provided the excuse I was looking for.

I researched  products like Juviderm, Restaline,  Radiesse, , etc.  I was happy to see the products didn’t las forever and that there was control of how much to “improve” one’s appearance.  I read blogs written by people who had undergone the experience, checked into contraindications, and decided to proceed,  knowing that if I didn’t like the results I could go back to the other unfamiliar face.

So I made my appointment and one recent morning got in my car, turned on the radio just as “The Little Old Lady from Pasadena” began playing on the oldies station (really!) and I arrived at the promised land in a state somewhere between trepidation, excitement and abject fear. Before the procedure,  pictures were taken with a regular camera and a studio camera. I found myself staring at a picture of my grandmother Celita and I have to admit my heart filled with love at the memory.  When had that happened?  When had I stopped looking like “myself”?  I spoke with the doctor who explained that one of the first things to go as one ages are the cheekbones and that she would use one product to build up my cheekbones, and another to fill the “marionette” lines.  I discussed with her that at sixty three I did not want to look forty, just wanted to recognize myself in the mirror again.  And so my face was covered with an anesthetic cream and I sat on the chair waiting for the procedure to begin.

A couple of days later when the swelling subsided I was greeted in the mirror by a younger more vital looking woman.  And I still looked like myself.  I didn’t erase all the lines, just softened them considerably, and even agreed to a little Botox, although I can still frown if I really want to.  A miracle.  I went to Zumba class two days later and found myself moving to the music with the abandon of years ago, feeling…. dare I say….sexy?

I am no longer invisible.  I get appreciative looks, I no longer blend into walls, men smile at me, women don’t treat me like I’m a fragile antique, and the only complaint I have received has been from my granddaughters who are convinced that grandma should “look old”.

Traveling to Miami I sat next to a couple of grandmothers on the airplane who were discussing their grandchildren.  Normally in the past I would have been asked if I had grandchildren and would have joined their conversation.  I wasn’t.  I have to admit I felt a little left out…not looking like a grandmother, not quite looking like a mother, I was suddenly in a sort of limbo, but I was no longer invisible.  And it was nice not to be invisible any more.  I had rejoined the land of the living and eliminated the need for photo shop.

I am not sure I will repeat the experience.  I have a few months to analyze the impact of this small change in my appearance on a physical, psychological, and spiritual level.  But I have to say that today I am really glad for a good dermatologist and that I am really enjoying finding myself in the mirror again!

Piti and I often played with Olguita.  She lived in our neighborhood and I went to school with her and Piti in pre primary, first and second grade.  Moving away from school didn’t affect our friendship. Every chance we got, Piti and I played with Olguita and our other great friend Rosita, the fourth musketeer who I will talk about one day…

Intelligent, sensitive, she is someone who lives her life authentically.  She sets her course and follows it with conviction, helps everyone in her family and community, and never takes credit for any of it.

Olguita disappeared from our lives for a really long time.  One day a couple of decades after we left Cuba when Piti was hurrying through the Atlanta airport, she heard her name called by a familiar voice.  To her surprise, she turned around and found Olguita!  What a moment after all those years!  Piti called me and told me and at the first opportunity we all flew in from our respective homes and met in Miami to celebrate our reunion.  It was then we found out that Olguita had never lost touch with Rosita and we immediately started communicating with her also.

So many years later, we hadn’t changed so much.  Olguita has the bearing of a Spanish countess and the humility of a saint.  Her father was one of the men who went to Cuba in the Bay of Pigs invasion.  She and her mother suffered exile together and eventually Olguita married.  She currently lives with her husband Dick in Georgia.

Olguita and I don’t see each other often, but we keep in touch almost daily, mostly exchanging humorous emails or articles written about Cuba or beautiful pictures of places all over the world.  We both know that we are there for one another, and so when I asked for recipes she didn’t hesitate to send me one of her favorites.

Enjoy!

Arroz con Pollo (Cuban Chicken and Rice)

Cooked in the good old pressure cooker

Place the small grill inside the pressure cooker,

do not cook directly on the bottom of the pot.

Throw all together but for some reason, in the

order indicated.  Don’t ask me why, but it works.

1 Chicken (small to medium) cut in pieces.  Cook

with bones-more flavor

2 cups of “Valencia” rice (arborio type, short grain)

3 cups of water

2 cubes of chicken bouillon

1 teaspoon of salt

1 teaspoon of pepper

1 small can of petit pois

1 small can of tomato puree

3/4 cup (or a little less) of olive oil

3/4 cup cooking wine

1 bay leaf

1 large onion chopped in small pieces

1 medium green pepper copped in small pieces

3 cloves of garlic finely chopped

1 can of roasted pimentos

about 1 teaspoon of Bijol (or ground turmeric)

Place all in the cooker in the order above and close

the cooker with the valve at high or full flame.

When the valve rings 4 or 5 time, turn the heat off

and leave on the stove until all the pressure is gone.

Comes out perfectly Cuban!

Angel Placer Madera (Angui) is Piti’s cousin and the brother of my heart.

When Piti and I were little, Angui walked us to Nuestra Señora de Lourdes school in La Víbora, making sure to keep us safe.  He is a few years older than we are so he didn’t participate in our games but he was always there, someone we knew we could talk to, someone who made us laugh, someone we could trust.

Angui was a beautiful young man.  He had blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes and had a million friends who loved him.  But he always made time for family, because family has always been the most important thing in his life, and I am blessed to have been included in that circle.

As Angui guided our steps and protected us when we were little girls, he has been our angel in exile.  Angui is the rememberer, the historian, the one who can relate anecdotes from his childhood and ours and knows just about everything about our families and neighbors as well as our country’s history,

I have much to thank Angui for.  When my cousins Pedrito and Juan Enrique were dying of AIDS many years ago, Angui and his partner Bill were there for both of them every step of the way.  No hesitation, no thought for themselves, they loved them and helped them to the end.  They navigated the waters of family intolerance without fear and with devotion displaying an uncommon loyalty.

When my mother passed away in Miami, I was standing with my father and a few people who showed up to her funeral when I felt two hands holding my shoulders.  Angui and Piti’s brother Rafi, my two “adopted” brothers, had come to be with me.  Angui had flown all the way from Washington DC to be there without telling me.

Besides his amazing memory, his sense of humor, his sensitivity, his loyalty and his rock solid love, Angui’s biggest gift to me has been his acceptance of me and his support in anything I have done.

When I embraced Sddha Yoga and Gurumayi gave me a spiritual name, Bhavani, he didn’t make fun of me as many in my family did.  Instead he began to address his emails to Bhavani and gave himself the indian name Patel, and gave us both the last name Garcia so we could be brother and sister.  Not to say that he might not have been privately amused at yet another eccentricity of his beloved Yolie/Adrianne-but he went with it and made it fun and made it special.

Sometimes when Revolutions happen, the universe compensates by sending us an angel.  Angui has been mine.  Angel Placer Madera, you have been a steady light in my life’s darkest moments and a joy to share the sunshine with in its lightest.  I have no words with which to thank the universe for you!

Aptly, here is a wonderful turkey recipe that could make your Thanksgiving very special, courtesy of Angui for my blog readers.  It is a recipe from his cousin.

But we called her Tita.  I wrote about Piti in the Chewing Gum and Friendship blog post.  Tita was Piti’s mother.

Tita was a beautiful woman without artifice.  She was trustworthy and reliable.   She was direct and there was nothing hidden behind her eyes.  Nothing but love.  Strong, steady, quiet, love.

For a girl like me, growing up surrounded by adults who never feared expressing strong emotions  and who could be dramatic and eccentric, Tita was a safe haven. Her home was a place where the spirit could be at rest.

Some of my favorite memories are of eating lunch at Piti’s house.  Tita was a born homemaker.  She could sew, embroider, knit, and keep a beautiful home, and she could cook and bake like the best.  We would sit around the table, Tita, her husband Felo (Rafael), her younger brother Rafi, Piti and I, enjoying every bite of our food while Felo delighted in making us laugh and Tita pretended to scold him for not letting us eat.  I loved feeling like a part of their family in those days before we knew we would be torn asunder.  Those days I was anchored by love, understanding, laughter, the company of my friends, and Tita’s cooking.

Tita and her husband Felo (Rafael) died in exile- away from their home on San Mariano Street in Havana.  They left their country with their two young children and came to the U.S. where they worked indefatigably until they succeeded in remaking their lives and providing their children with a secure future.  Just recently I found out that Tita and Felo had offered to take me out of Cuba with them, proving once again the extent of their love for me.  My family didn’t let them, and I was never told.  But I am unspeakably grateful to them for their heartfelt gesture.

Tita nursed Felo  through Parkinson’s disease before she died. She left us a few years ago, leaving many wonderful memories behind as well as some really good family recipes.  I wanted to share some of them with you, so you can get a little different taste of Cuba before the Revolution, before the Russian spam and the scarcity that now plagues the island.

Enjoy!  They are GREAT!  From Tita’s kitchen, to yours.

FLAN

(Caramel Custard)

12 egg yolks 1 cp sugar for caramel

4 or 5 egg whites

1 ¼ cp sugar

1 tbspn vanilla extract

4 cps milk

1 cinnamon stick

In a medium pan boil the milk with the cinnamon stick (just to the boiling point) and let it cool.  Remove the cinnamon stick and discard.

To make the caramel –

Add 1 cup of sugar to the pan* and cook on the stove over medium low heat to melt the sugar, moving the pan so the caramel doesn’t stick.  After the sugar has been melted, make sure that the entire pan is covered with the caramel.  It is best to do this over the sink for spills.  Be very careful when it’s hot, DO NOT TOUCH, it burns!  Let it cool.

To make the flan –

Separate the egg yolks and add the 4/5 egg whites, then using a fork mash them slowly and add the sugar.  Check the boiled milk to see if it has cooled down.  If so, add cooled milk to the yolk mixture carefully stirring constantly.  Add the vanilla.

Using a colander, pour all this into the caramelized pan.  Put the pan inside a larger pan with water (Bain de Marie) and put it in a 350 degree oven for about 45 minutes to 1 hour.  Do not cover.  Check it after 45 minutes to see if it is cooked by inserting a toothpick or knife in the middle.  If it feels too soggy, it needs additional time.  Most of the times that I’ve made it, it takes at least an hour or longer to cook. I think that is because the meatloaf pan I’ve used is deep.  If you have flat pan that holds the same amount of liquid as the meatloaf pan, and it fits into another with water for the baking process, it will probably be cooked in 45 minutes to an hour.  (This is just a guess….)

Let it cool and cover it with Saran Wrap and refrigerate at least 5 – 8 hours**.  I usually make it the day before I serve it so I can be sure it is cold.  Invert it into a platter and serve.  Bon Appetite!

*Be careful with the pan you use to make the caramel.  Don’t use a Pyrex type pan over the stove or a non-stick one either.  Since it’s difficult to find one that can be used, I usually cook the caramel in one of my regular small pots and pour the caramel very quickly into the baking pan.  When you do it this way, add extra sugar (maybe ¼ cup).

**If you plan to bring it to someone’s house, keep it in the pan where it was baked and then transfer it to the serving platter there.

This is Abuela’s recipe.  It’s my favorite flan recipe.  However, in these days of trying to eat healthy, 12 egg yolks is probably too much.  So, I’m adding Tia Lina’s recipe too.   It has less amount of eggs.

Flan de Tia Lina

5  eggs

1 can condensed milk

1 can evaporated milk

1 tspn vanilla

Pinch of salt

• Mix all the ingredients in a blender until they are mixed well.
• Pour into pan already coated with caramel and place it into a larger pan on the middle oven rack, and pour lukewarm water into the outer pan, reaching two thirds of the way up the side of the custard.
• Bake @ 300º for 1 1/2 hours.  Insert a cake tester in the center to see if it is set.
• If so, remove from the oven and cool it on a rack to room temperature.
• Cover it with Saran Wrap and keep it in the refrigerator for at least 8 hours.  It’s best to bake it the night before.
• When you are ready to serve it, run a knife around the inside edges of the pan, invert it into a serving plate and spoon the caramel over it.

For the caramel:  ¾ to 1 cup of sugar

• In a small saucepan over medium heart, cook the sugar, stirring after it starts to bubble, until it caramelizes (6 to 8 minutes
• Pour the caramel into a 2 quart ovenproof mold, swirl to coat the bottom and sides.  Let it cool a bit.

I have seen on TV some chefs putting a few drops of water into the sugar too.  I’ve never done it but might try it.  Use your judgment there, start with one and increase it if you think it should be.

Do not grease the pan before adding the caramelo!!!!

As I wrote in Abuela’s flan recipe, Tia Lina says that this was Abuela Charo’s recipe.  It is very good too and very easy to make, but I prefer Abuela’s recipe.  Just a matter of taste…

Bread Pudding – Cuban Style  – Serves 12

½ lb regular sliced bread* 1 cup sugar to make “caramelo”

2 cups milk

4 eggs ¼ tspn nutmeg

1 cp sugar ¼ tspn ground cinnamon

4 tbspn butter, melted ½ tspn vanilla

2 tbspn dry cooking wine ½ tspn almond extract

½ cup raisins ½ cup toasted almonds

1tbspn flour to add to the raisins and almonds just before you add them to the mix.  Stir.

Preheat oven to 350.  Cut the bread in small pieces and mix it in with the milk.  Set aside.

Make the “caramelo” by adding the sugar in a heavy pot stirring frequently until it melts.  Keep your eye on it. If it burns you will have to start over. It just needs to melt that’s all. (The following is from the Internet – the non-stick pan instructions I’ve seen say not to use it on top of a stove… “Using a non stick pan will cause the caramel to just slip off the pan when pouring – easy to clean later”. – makes sense to me…  Also, do not use Pyrex pans on top of the stove either).

Have ready a baking dish that holds about 6 cups (I use a square baking dish but it can be done in a meatloaf type dish).  Add the melted “caramelo” immediately into the mold, and swirl it around to cover the bottom and sides of the mold.  Work this in quickly because the “caramelo” will harden as soon as it starts cooling off.   Set aside to cool.

In a separate bowl beat the eggs with the sugar, melted butter, and wine.  Mix the cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla and almond extract, the soaked bread, raisins and almonds with the egg mixture.  Add this mixture to the caramelized mold and bake it “al baño de Maria” (Place the baking dish with the bread pudding into a larger rectangular pan that is at least 2 inches deep, adding water to this large rectangular pan almost to the top).

Bake for approximately two hours checking to see if it’s done by inserting a knife in the center.  If it is stil soft, let it cook longer until the knife comes out clean.  At least 30 minutes before the two hours, check to see if it’s getting too brown on top – if so cover loosely with foil.

Remove from the oven carefully and let it sit on the counter until it cools.

*I use any type of white or wheat bread, including French or Italian bread and/or a mix of all of them.  I don’t mind the bread crust but some people prefer it without the crust.  The bread should definitely be stale.  I usually save old bread in the freezer and when I have enough to make a bread pudding, use it.

This is not Abuela’s recipe but from the cookbook, “Cocina al Minuto”.  I’m including it because Abuela used to make it frequently in Cuba and in New York, and I think this recipe reminds me of hers.  I think the only difference is that I don’t think she made the caramelo.  She probably skipped that and lightly greased the baking dish before adding the mixture.  She then made a simple syrup and sprinkled it over it when she served it.  When I was a little girl in Cuba, I hated raisins and always tried “very hard” to scoop them out without Abuela noticing, but I didn’t succeed most of the time, and yes, you know the rest, she made me eat the raisins!  I like them now….

Galleticas Nena

(Nena’s Cookies)

2 ¼ cp all purpose flower

¾ cp Crisco shortening.

1 cp sugar

1 egg

1 tspn baking powder

Guava paste (small box or can)

I use a food processor to make these cookies.  If you don’t, it takes a lot longer because you will have to mix the dough with one of those pastry blenders or two forks.

• Mix all the dry ingredients plus Crisco in a food processor bowl and pulse a few times.
• Add the egg and pulse a few more times until it’s mixed well.  Don’t knead it, just get it to hold it together.
• I start by putting the mixture in a large bowl and take about half of the mixture first (repeating it until you run out of dough) and put it in between wax papers that have been lightly floured, and roll them with a rolling pin.
• I try not to roll the dough too thin, but that is matter of preference for the size of the cookies.
• To cut them I use the top of a large spice jar.  I’ve tried cookie cutters and others, and that’s the one that works best for me.  You can make them larger if you like.
• Put the cookies in an ungreased cookie sheet.  I line the cookie sheet with parchment paper to avoid washing the cookie sheet.  They also cook nicely using it.
• I use guava paste for the center because that’s what the original recipe called for, but when we first came from Cuba we couldn’t find it, so we used any type of jelly.  You might be able find the guava in the Hispanic section of the supermarket, Publix?
• Cut very small guava squares and place them in the center of each cookie.  The guava is kind of messy and sticks to your fingers, so I always have a small bowl with water to loosen it up.
• Bake them at 375 for 8/10 minutes till they are just lightly brown.
• Cool them on a wire rack.

This recipe was Abuela’s sister’s Nena’s recipe.  She used to make them for many years, quite possibly in the 1930’s or 1940’s when Abuela and her sisters lived in La Vibora, in a house right next to Bibo and his family.  I don’t know the real name for these cookies, except for “Nena’s Cookies”.  During our first Christmas in Chicago, I was feeling homesick for our family and friends in Cuba, and Abuela suggested I ask Ina to send me the cookie recipe.  Ilse was kind enough to send it to us and it has been a tradition to bake them at Christmas every year.

Some of what I experienced is hard to believe.

What follows is possibly one of the most despicable examples of collective torture in the history of humanity.

Each of the four buildings that held the prisoners in Isla de Pinos was rigged with seven thousand pounds of TNT by the Cuerpos de Ingenieros del Ejercito Rebelde (The Core of Engineers of the Rebel Army)

The foundation walls and tunnels of the buildings were perforated in triangular patterns creating an almost flawless demolition system once the TNT was installed.  In addition, one thousand pounds of TNT were placed in the central tower of each building with the objective that each tower would become a powerful fragmentation grenade four floors tall, the height of each tower.  The project was completed in the summer of 1962 and the prisoners lived for over a year fearing the explosion that would destroy them could come at any given moment.

All the while in prison cells the beatings continued, as did the tortures applied in cells of punishment and solitary confinement.  Some prisoners were even taken to Mazorra, the largest mental hospital in Havana, where they were given Electric Shock Treatments in the absence of any mental illness.

In 2003, 75 Cuban dissidents, journalists and poets were incarcerated by the regime,  provoking the dissent of many,  including men of outstanding talent like Jose Saramago, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, Eduardo Galeano, Carlos Fuentes, and Susan Sontag.

Among the prisoners were Raúl Rivero and Manuel Vázquez Portal, two internationally known Cuban poets.  Two poets condemned for writing their verses.  That was their only crime.

Marta Beatriz Roque, a professional woman in a fragile state of health was arrested for suggesting that all Cubans gather peacefully to discuss the future of their country.

Most of those arrested were promoters of Project Varela, a group of people who walked the streets collecting signatures in accordance with the existing Cuban constitution, attempting to create a referendum where all Cubans could offer an opinion over the direction they thought their country should take in the future.

None of those arrested had a history of violence.  All of those condemned were pacifists in the style of Mahatma Gandhi.

After being condemned to long sentences, in a Machiavellian turn of events, all of the prisoners were transferred to prisons far away from where their families lived in an effort to deepen their suffering and that of their families.

The common denominator in the Cuban dictatorship has been to trample the rights of every citizen in order for Castro to maintain his hold on power.

Dig into the history of the Castro government and you will find that very few nations of our American continent have required the kind of price our Cuban people have paid to keep Fidel Castro in power.

I am sure that the day will come when a tribunal like the one in Nuremberg, will judge the tortures imposed and the crimes committed by Fidel Castro and his government and find that during his regime, justice has been nothing but a wadded up peace of paper in his murderous hands.