Included in 19th century cooking manuals, according to Mary Urrutia Randelman these fritters were sold by Chinese street vendors calling out “Bollitos! Frituras!” through the streets of Havana.  It all seemed very poetic, but when I sat down to the task I couldn’t help but think it should be easier.  Was there a trick to it that I was missing?  I could picture entire families sitting around the table and pitching in to peel the peas.

The frying at least was simple as promised.  Quickly processed with mashed garlic and lightly seasoned with salt and pepper, I thought the batter was way too loose, but when I dropped it in the oil (with my new favorite gadget the cookie scoop), they puffed up and went gold in a couple of seconds.  In their raw state, they tasted something like soy beans but once fried they had a bread-like texture I wasn’t expecting.  I sprinkled them with lime juice but they really started singing when I added a mango-pepper jelly to set off the bite from the garlic.  A few frituritas later, I decided maybe they weren’t too much trouble after all.

Bollitos de Frijoles de Caritas/Black-Eyed Pea Fritters
Adapted from Memories of a Cuban Kitchen: More Than 200 Classic Recipes by Mary Urrutia Randelman and Joan Schwartz.  

1/2 pound black-eyed peas, dried, picked through and well rinsed
4-5 whole garlic cloves, mashed
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
2-4 tablespoons water (optional)

Soak the black-eyed peas in water at least 8 hours or overnight. Change water at least twice.

Drain peas and rinse well.  Rub off the outer husks with the black spots, saving the white beans.  Combine the beans, garlic, salt and pepper in the bowl of a food processor.  Pulse until it forms a smooth paste adding water if needed.  Adjust seasoning to taste.

In a heavy skillet, heat 2 inches of oil over medium-high heat to 375º.  Working in batches, scoop out one rounded tablespoon of the bean mixture and add to the oil, 5-6 at a time.  Turn the fritters with a slotted spoon until they are puffed up and golden, about 1-2 minutes.  Be careful not to overcrowd the skillet or the oil temperature will fall.  Remove fritters from oil and drain on paper towels.

Sprinkle with lime and serve.

Despite a lifetime of research, I’m always discovering something new in Cuban food.  While it reminds me not to take anything for granted, less pleasant is knowing that my nearest and dearest have been holding out on me.  That’s how I felt when I discovered that harina – cornmeal simmered to a creamy state and topped with peppery sofritos and poached or fried eggs, ham or chorizo, shimp or crab – was a Cuban comfort food staple that everyone was having but no one was talking about.  I’d enjoyed Italian polenta prepared this way, but I  hadn’t realized there was a take on it that was much closer to home – just not my home.

Of course, it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise – after all I’d seen the tamales and vaguely remembered a sweet version of harina with dried fruits and nuts.  Home in January, I’d spent time with Humberto and Carmen Calzada who were helping me with a new project by providing me with Cuban food history and Cuban food stops in restaurants and bakeries all over Miami. Humberto was describing some of his favorites growing up when he hit on harina  which I’d never had. A few days later our family was invited over and Carmen was stirring an enormous pot of cornmeal and frying eggs in what was basically the perfectly organized kitchen I want to be in when I grow up.

An economical meal, it most likely came out of necessity but became the kind of homey favorite that when you mention elicits sighs and ”oh my mother used to make…”  Since I’m half way through an almost perfect lenten season run of fish only fridays, I decided to make the crab version when I got back to Brooklyn. Unfortunately, most of the recipes I found started with clubbing live ones.  While I hate to back down from a challenge, I was not up to wacking crustaceans in my tiny ktichen in the middle of winter.  Leaving that task for the warmer days ahead and beach front vacations, I let the killing happen off-stage and brought home fresh lump crab meat from the fish store instead.

As simple to make as sauteeing peppers then letting them simmer with vino seco and fire roasted tomatoes, the only challenge was the cornmeal.  After whisking it in quickly so there were no lumps, I had to watch out for furiously hot splatters of cornmeal that would bubble out of the pot.  After I lowered the heat and gave it a few regular stirs, it more or less behaved till the rest of the meal was ready.  I toasted some bread but decided to make plantain chips with vinaigrette as well. Having made an enormous batch of harina, I sent some to my downstairs neighbors but still had enough for the next few days.  One way to make up for lost time.

Harina con Cangrejo/Cornmeal Stew with Crab

1/2 pound fresh lump crabmeat, picked through for shells and well drained
3 cups coarse yellow cornmeal
2 tablespoons canola oil
1 cup green bell pepper, diced
1 cup red bell pepper, diced
1 cup white onion, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 14.5 ounce can fire-roasted tomatoes, diced
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
1 large bay leaf
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
1/2 teaspoon pimentón
1/4 teaspoon ground celery seed

Tabasco or hot pepper sauce
Lime juice

In a large heavy pot, bring 6 cups of water to a boil. Add cornmeal in a steady stream, whisking constantly until well blended so that no lumps form. Lower heat to medium-low, stirring frequently until the cornmeal begins to pull away from the sides but is still creamy and smooth, about 15-20 minutes.

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat.  Add peppers and onions and sautée until soft, about 3 minutes.  Add garlic and cook an additional 2 minutes.  Add tomatoes, white wine vinegar, bay leaf, salt, ground pepper, pimentón and celery seed. Bring to a simmer and cook until the tomatoes begin to break down, about 10 minutes.  Add the crab and warm until just heated through, 2-3 minutes.  Adjust seasoning to taste.

Divide cooked cornmeal into individual plates and top with crab mixture or blend together in a  large pot and serve. Add tabasco or hot pepper sauce or sprinkle with lime juice to taste.

I’ve tried to poach my own, but the results have been eh to awful. Online recipes were vague, incomplete, and called for an amount and variety of guavas I couldn’t hope to find on the random Chinatown fruit cart that occassionally sells them. A few weeks ago, I was food tripping through Jackson Heights when I came across an enormous bin of round, yellow, Mexican guavas. I don’t see fresh guavas very often but  I stock up when I do.  Determined to get the poaching right, I tried a few different ways – peel on and off, seeds removed before and after, and random blends of spices. I made it through 3 lbs and had only a small jar of sugary jam (at least that’s what I called it) to show for it.

With no plans to return to Queens anytime soon, I thought that was it until I found a small basket’s worth of small green apple guavas around the corner from my appartment. Union Market likes to throw in a random to their well-stocked produce section – ugli tangelos, dragon fruits, carambolas…Like foreign exchange students, they end up forlorn on a shelf after the initial novelty passes. I picked up a few and let them ripen over the course of the week. After a couple of days, my apartment was under a guava cloud and I was ready to try again. Taking a little from each of my previous attempts, I peeled them but didn’t strees if I couldn’t get all of the seeds out knowing it would be easier when they were poached, I eased up on the spices, and used vanilla bean instead of extract.  I also made extra syrup since I wasn’t sure of the cooking time and figured too much was then letting them dry out.

I would have loved to find pink guavas but adding food coloring would have defeated the purpose.  Besides, these were pretty in their own way. After all the effort and misfires, I was happy to have a jar of freshly poached, lightly golden, vanilla bean speckled guava shells.  Tucking the empty  pod and cinnamon stick into the jar, the flavors only deepend over the next few days while it chilled in the refrigerator. Having finally figured out how to go about it, I was sure I’d be able to repeat it whenever I came across fresh guavas – be it by the handful or cartful.

 Cascos de Guayaba/Poached Guava Shells

1 1/2 pounds guavas, well rinsed and peeled
3 cups water
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 cinnamon stick
1 teaspoon allspice, whole
2 cloves, whole
1/2 vanilla bean

Combine water and sugar in a large, wide bottomed saucepan. Wrap the allspice and cloves in small square of cheese cloth tightly gathered and tied together with kitchen twine, alternately use a sachet or tea strainer. Slice open the vanilla bean, scape out the seeds, and add both the seeds and the pod to the pot. Add the cinnamon stick. Bring to a high simmer over medium heat.

Cut the guavas in half and scrape out the pulp and seeds with a serrated spoon.* Discard the the pulp or save for another purpose. Add the guava shells to the simmering syrup, cut side up. Lower heat and simmer gently, turning once during cooking, until cooked through and tender, 15-20 minutes.

Remove guava shells from the syrup and allow to cool.  Remove remaining seed and pour shells into a serving bowl or jar with lid if using later.  Continue to simmer syrup until its reduce by half.  Remove from heat and strain.  Discard sachet.  Add one tablespoon of lime juice to the syrup and pour over guava shells.

Chill until ready to serve with cream cheese or goat cheese and crackers.

*Any seeds left behind can be easily removed after poaching.

It’s always strange to me when I see flan listed as special on a dessert menu.  Far from specialized in Cuban restaurants, it’s not rare to find an all-flan menu – de leche, de queso, de calabaza, de mamey and of course – de coco.  Yet somehow I never get tired of it.  If it hadn’t been brought to the New World via Spain, Cubans would have had to invent it.  Most Latin American countries have their own version of this dessert and, while I can’t pretend to be neutral, in the case of flan I think it has to go to Cuba. For me it’s about the caramel.  Made directly in the mold, the sugar cooked long enough to go dark amber without becoming bitter (though personally I like it a little bitter).  I love the ritual of holding it just over the flame and watching it go clear then dark.  It can get away from you easily but it’s always fun to see how far you can take it. 

Flan de Coco
This recipe belongs to my Tita Olga though it was given to me by her niece Cely. I called her for an emergency menu rundown for a seperate project and she came through with this smoothly rich flan. Originally, it called for canned shredded coconut, but I replaced it with fresh coconut to extract the oils and infuse the custard with as much coconut flavor as possible.  The shredded coconut will rise to the top creating a bottom layer of custard soaked coconut flakes when it’s inverted.

¾ cups of sugar

1 large dried coconut (see notes)
1 12 ounce can evaporated milk
1 14 ounce can of condensed milk
5 eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 pinch of salt

Equipment: 8-inch round metal cake pan (preferably 2-3 inches deep), roasting pan

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Using a corkscrew, open the holes in the coconut’s “eyes.” Invert the coconut over a bowl or measuring cup and drain. Reserve the coconut water for another use.

Place the coconuts in the oven for about 15 minutes. Carefully remove then set the coconuts over a dish towel and tap with a hammer or the blunt edge of a knife at its widest point until a fissure opens that will allow you to crack the coconut into large pieces. Use a heavy spoon to scoop out the coconut meat from the hard outer shell. If you’re having trouble cracking the coconut or separating it from its shell, return the coconut to the oven for an additional 5 minutes, then try again. Peel the brown outer layer and chop roughly into large cubes.

Pour sugar into round metal flan mold*.  Place over medium heat and move the pan frequently without stirring, until it takes on an amber hue.  Off heat, swirl the caramel so that the bottom and sides are lightly covered.  The caramel will be very hot so it should be handled carefully. Set aside.

Combine about 2 cups of the cubed coconut and the evaporated milk in a blender. Pulse on high speed until the coconut is finely shredded, about 30 seconds at a time. Strain over cheesecloth into a large bowl or measuring cup, extracting as much liquid as possible. Reserve one heaping cup of the shredded coconut.

Add the extracted liquid, condensed milk, eggs, vanilla, and salt to the blender and mix on lowest setting until blended.  Pour into a large mixing bowl and tir in the drained coconut.

To prepare the baño de María, place the pan in a larger roasting pan.  Pour enough hot water into the pan so that it comes about halfway up the sides of the mold.  Carefully pour the custard into prepared mold the set inside the roasting pan.  Place the pan in the oven and bake for 60-75 minutes until a knife inserted into the center comes out clean though it may still appear wobbly.

Allow to cool completely then refrigerate covered at least 4 hours or overnight.

To unmold, run a thin knife along the flan and side of mold.  Gently shake to loosen. Invert a large plate over the flan and quickly invert the mold in one motion.  The flan will gently drop onto the plate and the caramel will flow out so allow extra space around the flan.

Notes: 
Choose a coconut that’s heavy for its size. The “eyes,” or the three black spots at the stem of the coconut, should be free of mold, and you should be able to hear the liquid inside the coconut when you shake it.

The caramel could also be done in a small saucepan then poured into the mold.

Brought to the table in perfectly rounded mounds with an order of black beans, served in heavy chafing dishes on buffet tables, or ladled out of giant cookers from the kitchen counter, white rice hides in plain sight. Though a staple throughout Latin America and the Caribbean, white rice specifically anchors every Cuban meal. Its primacy partly due to large waves of Chinese immigration, I can’t imagine a better blank slate for beans, shredded beef stews, picadillos and plantains. I probably end almost every post with the words “serve over fluffy white rice” but had yet to include a recipe. When my sister texted me to find out how to make it. Rushed and reluctant to text back, I wondered why she didn’t just look it up here, then I checked and realized it wasn’t on my site. Oops.

Deceptively simple, it took me awhile to get my rice right. The directions on the package never quite worked and by cutting down traditional Cuban recipes to a reasonable amount (they’re built for extended families), I’d end up with either undercooked grains or pots of mush. I considered getting a rice cooker or “Hatachi” – so ubiquitous in Cuban homes that it’s in the brand name pantheon with Band-aids, Kleenex, and Xerox. My mother, who doesn’t cook, made brilliant rice using just a pot, a slatted metal cover and a paper towel (which routinely caught fire but the rice turned out well). I knew there was a trick to it and I couldn’t lose the counter space to a cooker until I found out.

Finally, I ended up where I should have started with Nitza Villapol. Rather than combine the water, rice and oil at the start, a few cloves of mashed garlic are sauteed in oil to infuse it with flavor. Once you’ve added the rice and water and brought it to a simmer, it’s set over a low flame and left undisturbed while it finishes cooking so it can’t burn, overcook, or generally get away from you. I usually made rice haphazardly so I decided to pay attention for once and question everything to get it all down. I’ve included those notes below. Unfortunately, while I was thinking about it, I wasn’t responding to the initial text and my sister went riceless. I’ve added the desperate email she sent me in the comments section but please keep in mind she’s prone to rich mischaracterization so serve over fluffly white rice.

Arroz Blanco/White Rice
Adapted from Nitza Villapol’s Cocina Criolla. The first question that came up was whether or not to rinse. I always did but wasn’t sure why. It turns out, a rinse washes away excess starch that makes the rice clump together (good) as well as the nutrients added to replace what was stripped during processing (not so good). I could see the benefits of both – clumpy rice that’s healthy versus fluffy rice that’s nutritionally deficient. I decided to treat myself to a rinse. I typically use brown rice or other hearty grain when I’m looking for a nutrient-rich option so I can keep white rice simple depending on the texture I’m looking for. Plus, to be honest, the rinsing felt ritual so I hated to skip it.

The other thought I had was whether or not to cover it completely or loosely while it’s cooking. I tried both methods and by leaving the lid slightly off, the rice came out firmer but still cooked through, so it’s really a matter of preference. The water also evaporates more quickly so it’s important to check it so sooner. When I’d like the rice to be a little creamier, I keep it covered. After it’s cooked however, it’s best to leave the cover firmly on and let it sit off heat for 5-10 minutes before fluffing it with a fork to separate the grains.

The final problem was adding the water. Once you’ve heated the oil, it has to be completely off heat before pouring in the water. It will send up a billow of hissing steam. If I’m feeling skittish, I set a frying screen over the pan and pour the water directly through the screen.

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 clove of garlic, peeled and mashed
1 teaspoon salt
1 ½ cups water, hot
1 cup long grain white rice, well rinsed with cold water until it runs clear

In a heavy saucepan, heat oil over medium heat. Add mashed garlic and cook on both sides until golden. Remove garlic from oil and discard.

Off heat, carefully add hot water and salt (See Notes). Bring to a high simmer over medium heat. Immediately stir in rice and return to a simmer. Cover and cook undisturbed over low heat until the water is absorbed and the rice tender, about 20-30 minutes. Remove from and heat and let stand covered about 5 minutes. Fluff with a fork and serve.

When I read in Fany Gerson’s My Sweet Mexico that well-rendered lard actually has less saturated fat than butter, I decided to finally try it. Making a special trip to the farmer’s market, I picked up a tub of Flying Pigs farm leaf lard – the best grade for baking. A little bit of lard goes a long way to making pie crusts flaky, so I thought it would work well for mantecados. I didn’t want to lose the barely there flavor of butter so I didn’t go whole hog, using equal parts lard and butter. Instead of cinnamon and cloves, I opted for crushed anise seeds and lemon. As promised, they were all crumble and sand – a new favorite that couldn’t be older. Feliz Nochebuena!

Mantecados de Ánis/Anise Shortbread Cookies
4 ounces unsalted butter, at room temperature
4 ounces leaf lard, at room temperature
1 cup superfine sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Zest from one large lemon
2 1/2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon anise seeds, crushed
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

In an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the butter and lard at medium speed for about 1 minute. Gradually add the sugar and increase the speed to medium-high. Occasionally stopping to scrape down the sides with a rubber spatula, continue to beat until it is pale and fluffy, an additional 4 to 5 minutes. Stir in the vanilla extract and lemon zest.

Blend together the flour, spices and salt. Add this to the creamed butter all at once then stir with a wooden spoon or spatula for a couple of turns. Return the bowl to the stand and mix on the lowest speed until the flour is just incorporated, do not over mix. Turn out the dough onto a large piece of plastic wrap, push together to form a large flat disc, and wrap well. Refrigerate until very firm, at least 2 hours or overnight.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper or nonstick liner.

Scoop out the dough in tablespoons, roll into a ball and place on the cookie sheets, about 2 inches apart. Using a small spoon dipped in flour, press down on each ball so it form a round disc about 1/2-inch thick. The dough will be fragile but if it cracks or the dough falls apart it can be gently pressed together or reshaped. Repeat with remaining dough.

Bake the cookies until the edges are lightly golden, though the tops will still be pale, 12-14 minutes. Remove from the oven and while still warm, sprinkle generously with confectioners’ sugar. Using a spatula, carefully remove the cookies and lay out on a cooling rack.

Yield: 2 1/2 dozen.

A few months ago, when my friend Achy (whose fantastic blog you can find here) was visiting, I invited her over for a Cuban breakfast then thought better of it. For the most part, Cuban breakfast is cafe con leche and pan tostado. The coffee I could make but I have yet to find good Cuban bread north of Tampa and a latte doesn’t really justify a trek to Brooklyn. Making it an early lunch instead, I made a tortilla Española and tomato and avocado salad but wanted to offer something more.

The week before, I’d planned to make croquetas for a surprise party but they were the first item dropped when time ran short. Quickly blended with béchamel sauce, they’re supposed to be an fast solution for leftover ham, chicken or seafood but I rarely take it easy on myself. Always looking for a twist or complication, I’ve made them with chicken, peppers, and hard boiled eggs, gorgonzola and Jamón Serrano, and am thinking of a mushroom and shallots combination soon (or leeks I can’t decide). For this lunch, I wanted the same, simple ham croquetas I might have have picked up at any Cuban bakery in Miami when you’re lucky enough to find them freshly fried.

With ham filling leftover from the cangrejito pastry puffs that did make it to the party and a simple béchamel sauce, I threw them together at the last minute. With the first bite, I knew they were the best ham croquetas I’d ever made and, with the second, realized I hadn’t written anything down and couldn’t remember exactly how I’d done it. This weekend, with a pound of cooking ham once again left behind from a kitchen fail (don’t ask), I decided to retrace the steps of the earlier batch but get it all down this time. Coming this close to home, I couldn’t resist adding the short stack of saltines and lime wedges croquetas typically come with. Except for the missing mi vidas and cariños the waitresses bring with every order, it could have been a morning at Versailles. 
Croquetas de Jamón
This a very simple rendition of a fritter that can be embellished and seasoned in a million different ways. Perfect for tapas, I’m sure I’ll get more practice going into the holidays. Before frying, I heated the oil to 375 degrees, the standard temperature in most traditional recipes. Though they came out well, I think I may have had fewer eruptions if I’d lowered the heat slightly (closer to 365 degrees) which I’ll try the next time.

8 ounces cooking ham, cubed
1 tablespoon dijon mustard

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/4 cup unbleached, all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
1 1/2 cups whole milk
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
Pinch of freshly ground nutmeg

2 large eggs, well beaten at room temperature
1 cup dried bread crumbs
Canola oil, for deep frying

Line a baking sheet with plastic wrap and set aside.

Combine ham and mustard in a food processor and pulse until it forms a smooth paste.

Melt the butter in a heavy saucepan over medium-low heat. Add the flour and cook, stirring constantly until well blended but not browned, about 2 minutes.  In the meantime, gently heat the milk to a gentle simmer but do not let it boil.  Gradually stir in the milk, whisking constantly until the sauce has thickened and is pulling away from the sides of the pan. Remove from heat. Add the pureed ham and mix until well combined.  Season with salt, pepper and nutmeg.

Pour the mixture onto the lined baking sheet using a rubber spatula to spread evenly.  Bring to room temperature then cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until set, at least one hour.

Lay out 1/2 cup of flour, beaten eggs, and bread crumbs in separate mixing bowls.  Dust hands with flour and spoon the béchamel mixture into walnut sized pieces and roll into desired shape, about one tablespoon per croqueta.  One by one, roll the croquetas in flour, drop into the egg mixture with a fork or slotted spoon, then transfer to bread crumbs.  They should be completely coated in bread crumbs so they don’t leak when cooked.

Add about 3″ of oil to a large heavy skillet.  Heat over medium-high heat to 375°F (see header).  Working in batches, carefully add the croquetas.  Gently turn until brown on all sides, about 2 minutes.  Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towels or re-purposed grocery paper bags. Serve immediately.

Makes 20-24 croquetas.

But Is It Cuban?
Looking back at my summer posts, I noticed a lot of limes on the side or off in the corner – standing by to restore the balance to anything too heavy, too rich, or just too fried.  With Labor Day coming up, it’s was only right to bring them front and center in a key lime pie.  I thought it would be a departure from my Latin American desserts when I came across a few references to the Cuban pastel de limón.  Made with juice from limones criollos – also known as key limes – and condensed milk, the custard is topped with meringue, and poured into a cookie crust made from galleticas Maria.  Could the key lime pie be Cuban?  According to Maria Josefa Lluria de O’Higgins, a version of the pie was brought to the Florida Keys in the late 1860′s with Cuban settlers during our war for independence.  Other alleged sources include self-made Florida millionaires, their cooks and local fisherman.  While I can’t pretend to be impartial, I will say this – creole limes, condensed milk, meringue – it certainly sound like us.

The origin of the galleticas Maria used for the crust is less ambiguous but far more grand.  I always thought Maria was the little girl in pig tails on the bright gold package of vanilla biscuits my grandmother would give us for an afternoon merienda.  Not so.  They were actually created by English confectioners Peek Freans in 1874 to commemorate the wedding of Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna of Russia and H.R.H Alfred Ernest Albert Saxe-Coburn-Gotha, the Duke of Edinburgh, Queen Victoria’s second son, in the Winter Palace of St. Petersburg.  Even now, her name, Maria or Marie (depending on where they’re made) is at the center of every one, surrounded by an intricate border, a period reference to Russian architectural design.  It’s possible that they could have made their way into the Cuban version of the Florida pie around this time though it’s hard to tell.  Popular throughout Europe and Latin America dipped in milk, coffee or tea, they were partly credited with Spain’s post-civil war recovery when a wheat surplus led to a Maria mass production.

More complicated than I’d imagined for a five ingredient pie, it made me wistful for a simpler time.  My grandparents had a key lime tree in their backyard and my grandmother would have us gather them when they rained down, hiding in the  grass and tripping us up.  Small, hard, and thorny, they weren’t pretty like lemons or juicy green like limes so I didn’t associate them with the creamy yellow pie I loved.  A hurricane in the 1926 wiped out most commercial key lime harvests in the U.S. making these scattered back yard trees that much more precious.  Though I keep a bottle of key lime juice in the refrigerator, I always buy a bag of the fresh ones, mostly imported from Mexico, when they make a rare New York appearance.  As happy as I am to find them, I kick myself a little for not appreciating them more when they were literally falling from the sky.

Pastel de Limoncitos Criollos/Key Lime Pie
Inspired by A Taste of Old Cuba by Maria Josefa Lluria de O’Higgins.  Floridians are very protective of their pie and there are disagreements about whether it should be a crumb or pastry crust, baked or not.  One thing everyone agrees on is that the pie should be yellow. Key limes turn yellow as they ripen so a toxic green custard is the sign of a bad dye job.  They can be hard to find and regular limes can be substituted, but I suggest using bottled key lime juice rather than fresh regular limes in this case.  Galletas Maria can be found in most Latin American and some large chain grocery stores and graham crackers can also be substituted.

For the crust:
30 galletas Maria (about 2 cups), well ground but not powdery*
6 tablespoons of unsalted butter, melted

For the filling:
1 14-ounce can of condensed milk
4 egg yolks
1/2 cup of fresh key lime juice*
1 tablespoon lime zest

For the meringue:
4 egg whites, at room temperature
1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar
Pinch of salt
1 cup of sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Grease a 9-10″ pie pan with non-stick cooking spray.

In a large mixing bowl, combine the cracker crumbs and melted butter until the mixture holds together.  Fill the prepared pan with the crumb mixture and press into the bottom and sides of the pan to form the crust.  If necessary, use a measuring cup to level the bottom and sides.  Bake 10-12 minutes until lightly browned.  Remove from oven and set aside to cool completely.  Freeze until ready to use.

Increase oven temperature to 375 degrees.

In a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the egg yolks on medium until pale and fluffy.  Reduce the mixer speed and slowly add the condensed milk then the Key lime juice until well incorporated.  Pour the mixture into the pie crust (see note).

In a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, beat egg whites on low speed until foamy, about a minute.  Add a pinch of salt and cream of tartar and increase speed to medium until they hold soft peaks.  Gradually add the sugar and remaining lime zest and beat on high speed until it forms stiff peaks.

Cover the pie with the meringue and bake until lightly browned, about 12-15 minutes.  Allow to cool and completely and chill until ready to serve.

Note:  Instead of meringue, the pie can also be topped with freshly whipped cream.  At this point, bake the pie as directed then top with whipped cream before serving.

The passion fruit on its own was a little sour but combined with mango it came alive. The guava though was disappointing. Thicky and creamy with a slightly grainy texture, I added too much water then overcompensated with lime juice and zest only to get a freezing lime slushy with a pink finish. Needless to say, I went with the mango-passion fruit combo instead.

My post completed, I still had some guava pulp left so I decided to try again, using less lime and just the simple syrup to sweeten. I thought the graininess of the guava would work better as a paleta and was about commit it all to the molds when I split it up at the last moment – half went into the popscicles and the other half into a shallow baking pan to chill and shave off for a granizado. In either variation, both flavors were present, neither watered down or sweetened beyond recognition, just guayaba and limón, ice cold with tropical warmth.

Granizado de Guayaba y Limón/Paletas de Guayaba y Limón

2 cups guava pulp, fresh or frozen*
¾ cups sugar
¾ cups water
1-2 tablespoons fresh lime juice to taste
Zest of one lime

9x13x2 inch metal or glass baking pan or 6 popscicle molds

Combine the sugar and water in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir until the sugar is completely dissolved, about 5 minutes. Set aside and cool to room temperature. Using a blender, pulse guava pulp until smooth. Add cooled syrup, a little at time, until sweetened to taste. Please note that it will lose some of its sweetness when it’s completely frozen. Blend in the lime zest and lime juice, also to taste.

To make granizados: Pour into a shallow metal or glass baking pan. Cover with aluminum foil and allow to set in the coldest part of your freezer for about one hour . Using a fork, scrape the ice crystals that have formed into the center of the pan, mashing and blending them in as you go.  Cover and return to the freezer.  Repeat every 30 minutes or so until uniformly frozen about 2-3 hours depending on your freezer.  Serve immediately or cover tightly and freeze overnight. When ready to serve, use a fork to shave off ice crystals and scoop into dessert glasses. Makes 6 servings.

To make paletas: Pour into the molds. The mixture will expand in the freezer so leave about a 1/4″ of room at the top if lidded. Freeze for at least two hours before serving.  If you have any difficulty un-molding, run the mold briefly under warm water. Makes 6 popsicles.

Feeling nostalgic for the sounds of the pressure cooker working, oil popping, and meringue whipping that once dominated my weekend soundtrack, I planned a Sunday lunch instead. I consulted an old spiral bound menu cookbook Secrets of Cuban Entertaining by Rocio LaMadriz, Piedad Robertson & Olga de Zaldo that my aunt gave me a couple of months ago. Unusually organized by the number of people you’re hosting, in categories like “unusual but elegant” and “expensive but special”, I decided on the “simple” menu of pollo frito a la Criolla with espinacas a la Catalana.

A la criolla can mean a lot of things but in this case it’s mashed garlic with oregano, cumin, salt and pepper mixed with orange and lime juice and poured over chicken thighs then covered with onions and left to marinate over night. Quickly browned (mine went almost black), the chicken’s cooked slowly with the reserved marinade. Together with steamed spinach sautéed with garlic and tossed with pine nuts and raisins and white rice, I had my lunch. Friends become family in New York where everyone is from somewhere else so it made sense to linger together through the kind of hours long, family meals we all miss on Sunday afternoons.

Pollo Frito A La Criolla/Creole Fried Chicken
Heavily adapted from Secrets of Cuban Entertaining by Rocio LaMadriz, Piedad Robertson & Olga de Zaldo. The name can be misleading because it’s fried but not breaded. After the initial browning, most other recipes called for braising the chicken over low heat and I wanted to avoid deep frying so I added those steps.

Once it’s cooked, the chicken can be removed from the pot and set under a preheated broiler for a couple of minutes to crisp the skin but should be watched closely.

2-2 1/2 pounds chicken, thighs and legs
3 large garlic cloves
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoons coarse salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
1 cup fresh sour orange juice (or half fresh orange juice and half lime juice)
1 large onion, thinly sliced
1/4-1/2 cup canola oil

Place chicken in a large mixing bowl. Using a mortar and pestle or food processor, mash or grind 3 garlic cloves with spices, salt and pepper into a paste. Combine with sour orange juice.  Pour marinade over chicken pieces, top with sliced onions, cover and refrigerate for at least 3 hours or overnight.

Let excessive marinade drip off chicken and blot with a paper towel.  Reserve marinade. Heat about a 1/2 inch of oil in a heavy skillet over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking. Add the chicken to the skillet, skin side down until well browned, turning once, about 6 minutes on each side. Do not crowd the pan and work in batches if needed. Set browned chicken aside.

Pour out all but 2 tablespoons of the oil and sautée the onions in the skillet until soft, about 5 minutes. Add the reserved marinade and bring to a simmer. Return the browned chicken pieces to the pan and lower heat. Cover and cook until the chicken is cooked through, about 20-25 minutes.

Espinacas a la Catalana

2 bunches of spinach, well rinsed
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 cloves of garlic, finely minced
1 shallot, chopped
2 tablespoons raisins
1/4 cup pine nuts, lightly toasted
Salt and pepper to taste
Freshly grated nutmeg to taste

Heat olive oil in a heavy skillet over medium heat.  Sauté the garlic and shallots until soft, do not allow to brown, about 5 minutes. Add the spinach and cook until wilted. Season with salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Toss with raisins and pine nuts.