Family values

My brother is visiting me in Reno from southern CA this week.

Having moved away (> one hour) from my family for an extended period of time (> one year) for the first time has been an interesting experience.

I have always been close to my family; it was always of the utmost importance growing up. My family would regularly visit grandma and grandpa on the weekend where it was also common to see my mom's brother and sister, and their descent-sized families.

Oh how I loved seeing the fam. Grandma would and still does stuff my to my brim with delicious foods, grandpa would be talking about the Dodgers, Auntie Noma would be her normal loving self, and Jerry would be on some new exciting kick.

Anyhow, with my brother visiting, I always start feeling a little reminiscent. One of the times that I remembered missing my family the most was when I spent three months in Panama. I wrote the following letter to my mom and my grandma about the soup, soupita, that those women have prepared for me hundreds of times throughout my life.

It is the letter that I would like to share:

Dear Bedoya women (Grandma and Mom),

It nearly brought tears to my eyes.

When at the market last week I haphazardly picked up an assortment of grocery items: a pound of rice, choyote, tomato sauce, lentils, platanos, onions, and so on. As the week went by, I hardly noticed the ingredients that remained, perhaps by fate, in the cupboard. This evening, when feeling hungry, I opened the cupboard and to my surprise, I had just the right ingredients to make the dish that defines my childhood, and most likely my existence. It is a dish that I have come to call my own; not by creating it, but devouring it.

I thought twice about tampering with the preparation that I hold so precious to my heart. My Grandma and Mom have perfected this dish, and I did not want to shame them. After nearly one hour of contemplation, I decided that I would take a shot, hoping that I would not do it injustice. I have made it before, but it usually is preceded with a frantic telephone call to my Mom asking for preparation instructions.

As I stepped into the kitchen my nerves were high and the air was thick. (The latter was a figurative and literal statement; in the tropics, like here in Panama, the air is completely saturated at 100% humidity.) I took the ingredients and the utensils out of the cupboards with an amalgam anxiety, curiosity, and eagerness flowing through my blood. I started.

Like second nature, I started to prepare the meal. My body was moving uncontrollably as my innate sense of what and how came together like a newborn foal instinctively knowing how to run after leaving the womb. I chopped! I stirred! I measured! I cried (onions)! The odor was a drug that sent my into a cooking trance!

When my trip was over, I leaned over the stove, spoon in hand. I dipped it. I blew softly. I did it.

Paralyzed, I wanted so bad to hug the both of you and tell you that I love you. I made it.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I made Soupita today.

Chris

Oh, and the picture is of my me and my brother with our two second cousins, Joey and Gia at my parents house about one year ago.