(by Catherine Gigante-Brown)
For the past few years, I’ve been telling my son, “Savor these beans. Grandma Raquel isn’t going to be around forever.” Practically every time we visited, she’d send us home with a container of her amazing frijoles—either the variety we called “black gold” or the vibrant red ones dotted with potatoes.
Grandma Raquel had welcomed me warmly into the family when her grandson Peter and I were dating, and it didn’t take long for her to become a surrogate mom since my own mother passed away the year before Peter and I eloped. My mother-in-law lived 1000 miles away in Florida, and had two young grandchildren to occupy her time, but Grandma Raquel was just across the Verrazano Bridge. She was always there to dispense advice; it never felt bossy, just helpful and caring.
When I fretted about breastfeeding, ear infections, or toilet training, there was always
Grandma’s gentle reassurance: “You’re doing great” or “He’ll learn…they always do.” Not earth-shattering, but just the vote of confidence I needed. It was something my own mother would have done: a smile, a nod, a soft touch. Something I was sorely missing. And craved. And received, with unconditional support.
Born in 1923 in Havana, Cuba, Grandma Raquel had married the love of her life, Enrique, and came to the United States in 1946, but was widowed very young. She was an expert seamstress and worked in factories to support her daughter Lucy. But where she really showed her love was in the kitchen. The well-worn pots, the aroma of garlic and spices, the anticipation of the delicious meal—it was all one big embrace.
I was in awe of (maybe even envied) the way Lucy and Grandma Raquel worked together in the kitchen. They lived in a mother/daughter duplex, with Grandma occupying the studio apartment downstairs. Though her kitchen was smaller, Grandma often did the family cooking while Lucy worked. Lucy would sometimes set out whatever Grandma needed to prepare the meal, marveling at how she rarely measured. Often, they’d do the food shopping together. They were a seamless team.
Even the simple custom of catching up with Grandma Raquel over a cup of coffee made me wistful for my own mom. And preparing Cuban coffee with her was quite an experience, especially after macular degeneration took away much of her eyesight. She would measure the grinds with her fingertips and gently pack them down, determining the water level by weight. I would adjust the gas burner to a safe level, and we would wait, finally enjoying the thick, sweet, fiery liquid together.
I tried to replicate her recipes, but there was a learning curve. Once, when Peter and I were taking a trip to Miami, Grandma Raquel asked me to pick up some Behold for her. At least that’s what I thought she said. But I wondered: Don’t they have furniture polish in Staten Island? When she realized my mistake, she could hardly contain her laughter. “It’s bijol—the spice that makes chicken and rice yellow.”
Never was I more in need of maternal care and comfort than when I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2013. Grandma Raquel had survived breast cancer herself almost ten years earlier, and became my biggest cheerleader. She knew firsthand how scared I was. People meant well but could sound patronizing with their pat “You’ll-be-fines.” But when Grandma Raquel told me I’d be fine, I believed her because she was fine. “I know you don’t think so now, but some days, you’ll forget that you lost your breast.” And she was right.
At Grandma’s 95th birthday celebration, the party favor was a set of simple wooden cooking utensils and the recipe for her red beans, which I made many times, but they never tasted quite like hers—maybe because I was missing the decades of experience. For her 101st birthday last year, Peter and I brought her a requested lunch: a Shake Shack hot dog, fries, and strawberry lemonade. Although she had to breathe with the help of an oxygen tank, she was unfailingly cheerful and grateful. She died a month later.
Just recently, I defrosted a container of beans from my freezer. They’d been in there a while, but after the first spoonful, I knew for sure: They were Grandma’s beans. Mine just weren’t as good. I cried as the silky frijoles slipped down my throat. Here was Grandma Raquel, gone but still feeding me.
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Catherine Gigante-Brown is a New York-based author and editor. Her novels include Cry of Silence and The El Trilogy.
Grandma Raquel’s Red Beans
3 T. olive oil
1/2 medium onion, chopped
1/4 red pepper, chopped
3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1/2 chorizo (Spanish sausage), sliced
1/2 can (8 oz. size) tomato sauce
1 medium potato, cut into 1-in. cubes
salt, to taste
15 oz. can Progresso Red Beans (not dark red), drained
In a pot over medium heat, add oil and sauté onions, peppers, and garlic until soft.
Add chorizo and continue to sauté for a few minutes.
Add tomato sauce and cook over low heat for 3 - 4 minutes.
Add potatoes and enough water to cover.
Add salt and pepper to taste.
Cover and cook until potatoes are almost tender.
Add drained beans. Bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer about 10 - 15 minutes.
Serve over white rice.
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