Tasting Memories
Tasting Memories
THE BLOG
We all bring our stories and culture to the table. Food connects us all. It comes from sea and land, each ingredient containing its own seasonality. This blog is intended to connect the dishes and ingredients that bridge food to nostalgic memories. I write of the intersectionality of life and food through stories inspired by home, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico and America. I reflect on the senses and how they reveal my food coordinates by tasting memories.
El Rincón Cibaeño
My father, Rafael Concepcion inside the restaurants kitchen
The restaurant was my fathers dream in one place. In his love of cooking and restaurants, he bore the scars that reflected years of cooking. Wooden shiny panels made up the restaurant's walls. The restaurant was a place my parents spent most of their time in. The tablecloths and flower bases in each table were the thoughtful touches of my mother. She would switch it up every now and then, adding splashes of her delicate feminine touches.
We celebrated many birthdays, big Dominican cakes with fillings of guava or piña was never missed. Slices to go around our customers, friends and family.
My parents stand in El Rincon Cibaeño. We were expecting our newest addition to our family, my baby brother Antony.
My father always carried a notebook and phone close to him in case something came up at the restaurant. He performed an endless list of tasks, one involving the butchering of meat. He was very knowledgeable in types of meats and their particular cuts. Whenever the meat bandsaw would turn on, he would have me stand at a distance. Fibers of meat and bone spraying from the blade. I was both curious and scared of this machine.
The restaurant was the first time I was in the kitchen helping with minor tasks come time to prep. I joined my father on his gathering of ingredients in markets and purveyors. It was the only time I got to spend time with him, I look back into these memories with so much joy.
My father butchering meat on the meat bandsaw
Our first stop was to the Jetro. My father would let me choose anything I had wanted for the house. I remember standing in the long aisle, wide eyes taking in all the rows of snacks. We couldn’t leave without two 3 gallon ice cream tubs with three flavors to choose from; vanilla, oreo cookies, and strawberry. One tub for the restaurant and another for home. I particularly remember the boxes of Snapple bottles we would get for the restaurant. I was always drawn by the glass bottles, their various colors and the snippets of facts inside each cap.
My father writes on his notebook. The restaurant tables are dressed in cloths, on top a base of flowers, all touches of my mother.
After el Jetro we would then go to different purveyors to source specific ingredients. This meant multiple tastings, sometimes my father would buy extra for us to snack on our way to the next destination. I mostly remember the fruits and peanuts. My father grew up in a family of farmers in La Vega, Dominican Republic. He cultivated various kinds of vegetables and fruits on my grandparents' land. I remember the cacao tree that grew in our backyard, I always thought it was filled with rich chocolate. Many times I considered biting into one. My father had a built in sense when it came to picking good produce.
On the drive back to the restaurant, a roadside vendor sold a variety of peanuts; roasted without its shells /roasted in its shells/ raw without its shell / raw with its shell. I always chose the salted roasted lime flavored peanuts, my father preferred the roasted shelled peanuts. The man would package them in black plastic bags. My father would buy two bags for us to share and bring back home to our family. They were the most delicious peanuts I’ve had ‘till this day.
My brother Antony, my sister Soribel, my father and I at the restaurant just a year after landing in America. My mother captures this picture, our family finally reunited
The restaurant was my first home coming to America in 2005. I was happy to be with my father for the first time, as a family in a restaurant each one of us had part in. Seeing the customers and regulars enjoy a taste of home by the food my father cooked with so much care and love, made me really proud of El Rincon Cibaeño. It is where my love for food was born.
Sancocho in the Pot
This pot can feed over 10 people. El sancocho releases its aromas.
My favorite kinds of meals are made in one pot. Un sancocho/stew. Over un fogon de leña/firewood, en el campo just before dusk. Mosquitos give space to the sancochos live fire. Crackles and sparks, wood fire warming the air. Stir el sancocho and you’ll find yuca/cassava, yame blanca y amarilla/ white and yellow yam, yautia/ malanga, auyama/squash, plantains and meats, in harmonious dance to the sounds of a bubbling rich broth. It feeds the sensations, giving color to formless essences of aromas traveling near and far. Laughter and chatter surrounding the pot, earth felt underneath naked feet. One spoonful taste and various shades of colors inside glow, reaching the intimate parts of the soul. Mouths chewing to the beat of el sancocho on the pot.
El Sancocho de Mis Abuelos
Dominican Republic, these were one of the only images captured where my grandparents, Reina and Domingo are seen dancing.
On December 14,2024 my family grew bigger. My uncle and his family landed in the United States after 20 years in waiting for their residency. My grandparents, Reina and Domingo were ecstatic in having all of their children, my uncle, aunt and mom be under one roof after many years. The days leading up, “Tu escuchaste? mamá va hacér sancocho.” Did you hear? Grandma will be making sancocho.
Ingredients and sketches of what went into el sancocho de mis abuelos in Spanish
It was a December morning like no other, cold. I was tasked by my mom, who was in Dominican Republic at the time, to clean her apartment early morning before they all arrived later that evening. In entering the kitchen on arrival, my eyes went to the bags of raw meat; hen, rib, and beef left in the sink. My grandparents sourced the ingredients earlier in the morning. My grandmother was still in the grocery store gathering tubers; yam, yellow malanga, cassava as well as corn, plantain, squash and spices. I made a good start in what I came to do, clean but in hearing the start of prep I gravitated to the kitchen. I found my grandfather bringing out the big pot, an instrument that signified a big family meal. I thought of the pots past use with stews like mondongo/tripe and habichuela con dulce, a sweet beans dessert made traditionally on easter day.
Cooking steps of el Sancocho, side conversations with grandpas batata/sweet potato ice cream, and his joke on auyama/squash ice cream combinations. Grandma tricks on having broth set on the side to add over the progression of the evening as the sancocho dries due to the absorption of the tubers and plantains.
Sancocho is a stew that is rich in meats, tubers and vegetables. It is one of the national dishes of the country that when made, is meant to be shared because of its large quantity. Different regions in the Dominican Republic have adopted a different way of making sancocho by their selections of meats and vegetables. You’ll for instance find in the North East and South East of the country Sancocho de Chivo/goat. Growing up, I remember the occasions sancocho was cooked in my father’s village in La Vega, part of the Cibao region. I met many of my cousins when the cooking was happening. I was captivated by the action, the conversations that happened around the making of a family meal. My eyes always on the leña/ firewood stacked underneath the massive pot.
I mustered the courage to ask my grandmother if I could cook sancocho with them. Cleaning long forgotten, my first order of business was peeling the tubers. Cooking with my grandparents became an afternoon listening to the stories of their home growing up. My grandmothers influences of sancocho through her parents, my great grandparents. My great grandfather butchering pork, great grandmothers use of fresh vegetables sourced straight from their parcel of land. As I ate, I thought of the recipe and generational stories passed down by my grandparents in the making of our stew, our big family meal. El sancocho has never felt and tasted so complete.
