Last night we made me mother’s Spanish rice. It’s a funny recipe to follow. It was given to me over the phone, more than 20 years ago. It is written on the back of a used envelope and it doesn’t have any measurements on it. It’s just a list of ingredients with a curly bracket to indicate which ingredients to cook on the stovetop first, before the rice is baked in a dish.
I’ve never made it exactly the same. This time my wife started it and I finished it, and it was only after I got it all in the baking dish that I realized that I forgot a key ingredient. Back into the stovetop it went to mix this ingredient in… it still tasted wonderful. My daughter loved it, and said it’s one of her favourite home cooked meals. I said the sane to my mom at her age. It’s the quintessential comfort food for our family.
It’s funny how recipes get passed down; how families share food like traditions. My grandmother on my dad’s side is the best cook I’ve ever met, and she never used a measuring cup or spoon. Following her recipes was impossible. My mom would watch her and take notes, but could not master her dishes like granny. And granny’s repertoire was incredible. A Chinese decent Guyanese who married a Jew, she could make dishes from three distinct cultures, or fuse dishes and flavours with the expertise of an alchemist.
Everything she made was a favourite. I remember staying over with her once and she asked me in the morning if I wanted an omelette. I said ‘sure’ and she went to the kitchen to cook. 20 minutes later I heard her say in her thick West Indian accent, “Ehh-Ehh!” I asked what’s wrong and she said, “Ah, don’ have any eggs!” I had the stir-fried ingredients on toast and, despite the lack of eggs, it was one of the best omelettes I ever had!
It’s wonderful how we can be comforted by food, and how certain dishes can take us back to our childhood.
