You can still see all past stories on my portfolio where I store clips.
https://eatgordaeat.blogspot.com/
You listen to my first podcast appearance.
I was driving along one of the Sacramento Delta’s backroads when I got a phone call from my editor at the time, Paolo Lucchesi. “Before I make an official announcement, I wanted to tell you that I’ll be resigning from The Chronicle.”
I’m not sure what I said before tears started to come down my face. Not just because I was losing Papa Paolo, one of the only editors I had come to trust. But, because I knew that whoever was gonna take his place was not gonna tolerate ‘the outspoken’ from the previous regime. Paolo got The Chron to the James Beard awards, where a project - I was thrilled to be apart of - called Refuge was a finalist. He might also be the only editor I’ve worked with that not only cares about his writers, but about the legacy he leaves behind. So, if any one of his writers ever “makes it,” a person can say, “Oh, you were at The Chron when Paolo was editor.” He was nothing short of nurturing.
I have the winning bid* to his #askchefsanything, we’ll be Zoom-speaking about his time spent at The Chron, if I’m a better writer than Leena Trivedi and the real reason he thinks Tara Duggan killed my column. My pettiness runs rampant.
ICYMI - Here is a set of screenshots that led to my column getting cancelled.
Why didn’t I ever say anything? Because I thought I WAS UNPROFESSIONAL! I have been told so many times that I am assertive, demanding, “difficult to work with.” Even my partner told me not to say anything because I had already been stamped as “difficult to work with,” within some of the other publications. But, when Tara EMAILED me at 11:29AM to cancel our 11:30AM phone call, I thought to myself…" “And I’m the unprofessional one?” And yet, I still said nothing.
Fearful no one else would work with me. Fearful of continuing to rock the boat. Fearful. The world tends to see BIPOC women as “strong.” “You can handle it, you’re strong.” Almost like an excuse to place more and more shit on your shoulders. Carrying the burden of our current lives and our ancestor’s lives! Tack on another secret of how an editor treated you like shit and that’s another burden on your shoulders.
It can often seem like some folks aren’t happy until so much is on your shoulders that you’re 6 feet underground. Hopefully, you get to a place where you realize your worth and the useless bulb “they” thought was dead and chucked into the rubbish pile becomes a flower that was just dormant. Rise out of that fucking compost heap and turn that shit into a victory garden.
Within reason. I’ve been so stressed I had to drive myself to the ER because of constant abdominal pains that started a few weeks ago.
Above Image: Dan Liberti
Bacalaitos as familial memory and penance
July 5, 2018
My maternal great-grandma, Abuela Emilia, was born in Puerto Rico around 1913 and died in 2003. Despite her nine decades on earth, she and I knew nothing about each other. Hell, I didn’t even know I had a great-grandma until I showed up on her stoop in North Philly circa 1995-96. At the time, she and my grandma hadn’t spoken in 40 years.
Above Image: Abuela Emilia drinking Pitorro outside her tabla house. Puerto Rico, 1930s/40s.
My mother told me she was planning a trip to Philadelphia and I was invited if I would agree to a temporary cease-fire long enough to endure the trip together. I was 15. My mom was 43. I was going through teenage angst. My mom was going through menopause. We brought along my mom’s baby sister as a much-needed buffer.
Teenagers test the waters of independence by flying farther and farther away from the nest, developing their own identities and honing their craft as professional liars. I was no exception. For the first time, I was alone — a lot. I was lonely. My mom was working 12-hour shifts so I hardly saw her. I had no cousins around to protect me or speak up for me. The only friend I had since middle school turned against me and led a bullying campaign against me (involving handing me a razor and a bar of soap in the hallway at school to shave my “beard”).
Above Image: Clockwise > Abuela Emilia, Nina Alicia, Me, Moms and Cousin Calé. Philly, 1995/96
I tried to go live with my father, but found out that fool already had a whole other family and was pretending I was never born. He didn’t like me and I learned to hate him. And soon I hated everyone. Pure unadulterated Ivory soap hate. I had become this 100 percent raging chingona jump-on-yo-ass-as-soon-as-you-looked-at-me. I was just out there trying to figure it out on my own — until the cops showed up at our door and told my mom that I had missed months of school and they were going to send her to jail if I didn’t get my shit together. Off to “alternative” continuation school I went.
It turns out that my mother had also never met Abuela Emilia, her maternal grandmother. Our family unit in Sacramento was starting to grow threadbare, and she was pining for family just as much as I was. She wanted us both to meet my grandmother's mother.
Above Image: Abuela Emilia. Philly, 1995/96
As soon as we walked into the three-story Philadelphia brick row house, Abuela Emilia disappeared into the kitchen. I followed her and sat on a stool that stood underneath an archaic wall-mounted phone. My new yellow Perry Ellis windbreaker blended in with the yellow floral wallpaper. Emilia started cooking bacalaitos, fritters made from dried and salted cod.
Above Image: Dan Liberti
The best and biggest bacalaitos can be found in Piñones, a coastal town where unspoiled beaches and mangroves line one side of Road 187 and a conifer forest lines the other side. (Piñones — like pignoli — translates to “pine nut.”) The lines on Sundays can get ridiculous as locals and tourists shuffle from foot to foot in front of phosphorescently painted wooden casitas. The wait gives people plenty of time to watch the cooks pour the batter into huge roasting pans turned deep fryers, worn and black from open fire and time. The bacalaitos there are thin and crispy — two characteristics I find most people do not accomplish in their bacalaitos.
Emilia’s movements were on autopilot. She ran her hands through the soaked cod fillets that sat in an oversize enamel bowl until they broke up into tiny pieces. She added flour, a little water, a little baking powder and then swirled the batter around with her hand. Displeased, she added a little more water. This dance went on until she deemed the batter a good consistency, somewhere between crepe and pancake.
When she was ready, she took some of the snow-white batter and placed a large spoonful into the glistening oil in a cast iron pan. Seconds gone by, she flipped it. She turned to me and handed me the first bacalaito out of the fryer, her mahogany hands gnarled like ancient grapevines. Her eyes, turned down in the corners, told chapters of trauma. Her bacalaitos were golden, wispy as smoke, and the edges were lacy like the celebrated mundillo de Moca.
Before I even tasted the flavor of her bacalaitos, I heard the crunch. They shattered. The center was toothsome like our gente’s resistance, salty from the tears we shed, but the edges delicate and vulnerable, like when we reveal our underbellies to those we think we can trust.
Abuela Emilia’s bacalaito was also familiar. I had eaten it before, because it was my nana’s bacalaito. They may not have seen each other in 40 years, but their identical bacalaitos proved they were still connected. Whether they liked it or not.
I realized in that moment that my mom had molded her life in the best interest of me. So when I was sent to continuation school, I had failed. And she took it personally. Maybe she felt she had failed. It’s been near 20 years since I made those mistakes and failures and I still haven’t forgiven myself. Good old-fashioned residual penance.
Above Image: The best bacalaito ever
Bacalaitos (Puerto Rican Codfish Fritters)
Yields 15 to 20 fritters
Bacalao (dried and salted cod) can be difficult to find. My grandmother only used one brand when I was a kid and that was “the green and white package.” I later learned that this was the Cristobal brand. You can find bacalao at Specialty Foods in Oakland. Make sure to seek out bacalaitos if you’re ever in Piñones, Puerto Rico, where they make these fritters the size of your head.
7 ounces bacalao (roughly two fillets)
1½ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 to 2 cups canola or vegetable oil
Kosher salt to taste
Submerge bacalao in cold water and soak overnight. Drain.
Heat 3 cups of water in a pot over medium heat. When the water is warm, submerge bacalao for about 1 minute or until the fish easily tears apart with your fingers. Break bacalao into small pieces, as fine as you can get them. Set aside in a bowl and reserve the water.
In a separate mixing bowl, combine the remaining warm water from the bacalao pot with the flour and baking powder. Mix until it reaches a smooth crepe-like batter consistency. Add bacalao and mix again.
In a 10-inch cast iron pan, pour about 1 cup of oil, adding more if necessary. You want enough oil to slightly cover the fritters.
Heat the oil over medium-high heat. When hot, spoon ¼ cup of batter and fry for 5 to 6 minutes on one side until the edges are golden and the middle is still slightly pale. Flip and cook for another 4 minutes.
Drain on a paper towel and sprinkle with salt. Serve and eat immediately.
You can still see all past stories on my portfolio where I store clips.
https://eatgordaeat.blogspot.com/
*Don’t worry, the money is being put up by a benefactor. I don’t have any money!
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