tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66124376621787418762024-03-14T02:52:07.990-04:00Philadelphia FoodieBlogging about my childhood, family and Food. I have been a Chef and confirmed foodie. I have been to Europe, Africa, Canada and of course being of Puerto Rican heritage, Puerto Rico. I love to cook and eat in any language.I also love being a Philadelphian. Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-9572884403211672662014-01-27T19:29:00.001-05:002014-02-09T19:48:05.984-05:00 "Confesions in a Breakup. She said enough was enoughEvery relationship comes with risks and benefits. With this Valentine's Day coming up. I wanted to Confess. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62E85GPn85cBCWi-w_Z2W2KWLKVsaRohC9_f4Bqy5QvFD_Vxc6Gxr_327N60cke3i-IHifCUThBjpMSOfBvPUZhsJ5AF8vCqg-zQ_l91OAY7inQwMAIc7ounGa0p9hHVbVQa4to7Z9oK0/s1600/DSC_0336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62E85GPn85cBCWi-w_Z2W2KWLKVsaRohC9_f4Bqy5QvFD_Vxc6Gxr_327N60cke3i-IHifCUThBjpMSOfBvPUZhsJ5AF8vCqg-zQ_l91OAY7inQwMAIc7ounGa0p9hHVbVQa4to7Z9oK0/s1600/DSC_0336.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a>I have to confess that I have taken her for granted. I always expected her to be there to fill my needs. It didn't matter what time of day or night, if I needed her I expected her to deliver, and she did.<br />
<br />
I would be with her at home. making sure she was well seasoned and appetizing. She has been with me a very long time. <br />
<br />
Other times I would go out and visit her at the <a href="http://www.wawa.com/WawaWeb/"><i>WaWa</i> </a>or my favorite Chinese /Thai place. She would always be ready for me. Piping hot and ready for me. <br />
<br />
I had used and abused her willingness to please me. I never, in my wildest dreams, ever thought that she would deny me, and this time she said an emphatic, "NO!" .<br />
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Last June I began having health problems . I went to doctors for all kinds of pain and digestive distress. Originally, I was diagnosed with diverticulitis, a gastrointestinal disorder that caused a lot of pain and discomfort. The symptoms subsided , but never went away.<br />
<br />
In October I started experiencing a resurgence of pain and discomfort. I was without medical insurance at the time and was trying to self heal.<br />
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She was giving me all of the signals that she was not happy. She told me that I had better start paying attention to her. She also informed me that if I didn't listen there would be consequences. I ignore her and started to avoid her.<br />
<br />
I didn't listen. My symptoms gradually worsened. By December I was desperate .<br />
<br />
I had to go to the emergency room without any medical insurance and was worried about the cost of it all. The pain that she inflicted on me was so much that I had to go to the emergency room, cost be dammed .<br />
<br />
I was sent home on antibiotics. She didn't even come near me . By the next week my symptoms had worsened and I returned to the hospital where they kept me for the weekend .<br />
<br />
I asked her "What have I done to you". She said that I took advantage of her. Forcing myself on her whenever I wanted and that these are the consequences. I had to leave her and break up. She no longer was the person that I knew. I avoided her, even if we were in the same place.<br />
<br />
A week later I was again in the hospital for almost a week. She never visited me . I was devastated without her . I began to loose weight. I had lost over 25 lbs over the breakup. I continued to loose weight. Is addition to the <a href="http://www.webmd.com/digestive-disorders/tc/diverticulitis-topic-overview">diverticulitis I</a> also had <a href="http://www.webmd.com/digestive-disorders/digestive-diseases-gastritis">Gastritis</a>, that's when the stomach lining is inflamed due to the stomach acid thinning the stomach walls. For the next coming weeks I wondered if I would ever see her again.<br />
<br />
After several weeks of pain I started to feel better . I wanted to see her more and more of her. <br />
<br />
She started to visit me again in the last couple of weeks in small doses and told me that she was willing to reconcile if I met certain conditions.<br />
<br />
The Conditions were: <br />
<ol>
<li>Not taking her for granted and expecting her to see me more that 3 times daily.</li>
<li>I should not want more than I can have. </li>
<li>Appreciate her more with less.</li>
<li>Don't expect her to be too spicy. </li>
<li>I have to take better care with my health.</li>
<li>Include little roughage every now and then.</li>
<li>A little exercise wouldn't hurt. </li>
</ol>
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<br />
Her name is <i>Comida Buena</i> and we are back together .<br />
<br />
Overall I lost 32 lbs and have started back at the gym. Most of the weight loss was due to the illness and not having an appetite. For a Foodie like me it was a tough hit. I just did not want to eat because the pain I was having. I was thinking that I would have to find a way to live without food. I was missing simple things like morning coffee and eating for pleasure. <br />
<br />
The weight loss is the <i>silver lining</i> in a long and arduous Illness that basically wiped me out for at least 4 months. I am just now getting my strength back. <br />
<br />
My Love of Food has not diminished. <br />
<br />
I now take more time to plan and eat my meals. I just try to appreciate it more with less. If dine out with my daughter, another foodie, I usually split an item.<br />
<br />
I plan on taking more care of myself and continue loosing weight. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Happy Valentine's </div>
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<br />Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-42509679972900293962013-11-22T14:05:00.001-05:002013-11-22T21:17:00.710-05:00Unemployment, Jobs , and Purpose<br />
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<div style="tab-stops: right 6.0in;">
I would not be able to talk about being
unemployed without first talking about employment.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
Since 1982 I have been working in many different occupations. I originally
was going corporate with a background in advertising sales. I was a pretty good
advertising salesman. I was not from the "Madmen" time, but more
of the Charlie Sheen, "Wall Street" era. My partner and me were out
in the field selling advertising space to local businesses for a
local Free TV Guide magazine.<br />
<br />
We had a mentor, Candido, who we looked
up to because he was the only Latino with a six-figure income that we knew of.
He worked for AT&T before the breakup. He was responsible for negotiating
major technology and corporate deals. He worked his way up from an encyclopedia
salesman to an executive account representative. He was responsible for the
original ATM machines, called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">MAC </i>(money
access center). These machines appeared all of the sudden throughout the city.<br />
<br />
I was doing everything to make it. Both my partner and me who would
later become my brother -in-Law, Roberto were trying to break out of our lower
social environment.<br />
I felt that my future was set. I asked my girlfriend, Roberto’s sister, to
marry me on New Years Eve in 1984, even though I was broke. All of the my sales
profits went back into the business. I was on my way to corporate bliss. I had
become a confidant sales account representative. I was bringing in real money
for the ground floor enterprise. I had negotiated thousands of dollars in
advertising contracts. If I hadn’t invested my commissions I would have been
earning about a thousand dollars a week in 1983.<br />
<br />
I was married at City Hall in April of 1985 and celebrated with a humble
gathering of friends and family at the house I grew up in. My father cooked up
a feast and I was happy to be married. I had all of the confidence in the world
and a real faith in my abilities and my future, when my whole plan fell
through.<br />
<br />
The Monday after, I found out our partner, Randy Williams, a squirrely
looking man who looked liked like an African American version of Paulie from
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Godfather, </i>stole all of our liquid
assets and disappeared. Roberto had his safety net. He had applied for a civil
service job and was hired some time before. I, on the other hand was fully
physically and emotionally invested into the business and had no such net.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I was devastated and experienced my first
bout with depression. For those that don’t know, depression is not the normal feeling
down or sad. It’s usually the overwhelming inability to deal or bounce back
from a crisis. This was my first crisis. This was supposed to be my path to
financial success and freedom from my humble beginnings. It was not the future
that my wife and I had counted on. This wrecked my confidence and forever
affected my relationship with my wife. It probably affected all of my
subsequent relationships since.<br />
<br />
After loosing my chosen path and falling without a net I had to find
more earthbound work. I eventually after some time started delivering pizza
while my then wife was delivering my son Charles (Bobby) Robert, then
eventually finding a retail sales job at Buster Brown Franchise store. I
worked my way to assistant manager and became a Mallrat. The funny thing about
working retail in a Mall is that you get to know what’s going to be on sale at the other stores
before the public does. All of your friend start asking about getting a
discount. Fortunately for the discount, I was able to shoe both Bobby and
Sarah, My daughter. I was also able to maintain a new wife, property and a
living, even though it was not to last.<br />
<br />
In 1993 was laid off due to the store that I worked from was closing and
went back to school for some time. I was separated and divorcing at the time
and put all of my angry energy to school. After that I ended up doing and
AmeriCorps Term of service. That was 1995. I became more interested in making a
difference in children and their families’ lives. I had found my next
purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have worked the next 17 years
in non-profit in children, teens and family programs for community centers. I
had always felt that I needed to have a purpose. Being unemployed had made it
challenging to say the least to continue with a purpose.<br />
<br />
I felt that the good that I did would come back to me somehow. I have
gained a lot of experience and consider myself very capable of doing many
different things. I have been a supervisor, interviewer and workshop
facilitator and yet I still feel unprepared for the job seeking experience
that I am currently doing.<br />
<br />
I was completely caught off guard with my being laid off of my last
job. I had been told the whole summer that things were rough. I was given extra
responsibilities because I had the right "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Skills-Set"</i> and facilitated some life skills training at the
high school level. This made me think that I was a vital part of the
organization. The fact that I could be in different positions within the
organization made me realize that I do have certain skill sets that were vital
to the organization. Even when I was told that I would be let go, I thought
that at the last minute things would turn around. They didn’t.<br />
<br />
I was devastated. I did not tell any of my co-workers until the last day. I
was angry that I worked so hard for the summer. I had been working sick. I
didn’t know that I had diverticulitis and was in constant abdominal pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued to work the summer subconsciously
trying to prove my worth to the organization. My sacrifice for the job made the
realization even more devastating. I usually have a comedian’s sense of humor.
If something happened bad to me I would find someway to make a story out of it.
I would tell my coworkers these stories. I would say things like, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">" You know Marriage is temporary,
Divorce is forever!” </i>I had nothing to say that day. I worked as if
everything was normal. I told a few coworkers and left. I had been thoroughly
embarrassed.<br />
<br />
Being unemployed as a young man is different from being unemployed at near
50 years old. It doesn’t matter that the economy is bad. It’s a blow to my
abilities that I was not able to be smart enough to avoid it at my age. I just couldn’t
move back with my parents and pick myself up. This is my third crisis I will
talk about the second one later. I tackled the crisis like the others. I try to
get busy in order to get my mind off the crisis.<br />
<br />
I applied for unemployment and signed up for job search through the state. The
state’s sight is not the place to look for work. I know from my experience as a
recruitment representative. The State’s career site posts jobs that are rarely
looked at by the employers. When I was on the other end looking for applicants
I would have to physically logon to the site. The candidates that were being recommended
had no experience in the positions that I was filling. The other job sites aren’t
that much better.<br />
<br />
I do the usual applying to jobs via the Internet and wait for calls that do
not come. Sometimes I don’t even get a confirmation. I used to look in the
newspaper for the job listings and send resumes or show up to advertised hiring
events. Those days are gone. I am constantly looking at my resume to make sure
its different and that that might be why I am not getting any calls. Sometimes I get sick of looking at it. <br />
<br />
I was telling my students during the summer when facilitating work readiness
training that the job applications process is actually designed to reject
applicants out of the process. In this economy with so many people applying for
so few positions hiring managers design the process to go through many
applications. There are even companies that have set up apps just to process
applications without any human review at all.<br />
<br />
Having that knowledge doesn’t make my job search easier. The hardest thing
about applying online and never knowing how you are doing. You never get a
call and you cannot call anyone to check on the status of your application. The
government site is not worth it at all. There is no guarantee that your
application is even getting looked at.<br />
<br />
I recently went to a career fair in which the venders did not have many
jobs. They were offering trade careers in bar-tending, cosmetology along with
for profit colleges. I felt that I was being taken advantage of. It was a real
waste of my time.<br />
<br />
I try to remain hopeful and am continuing my job search. I am old school.<br />
<br />
Job means purpose.<br />
<br />Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-69694915340580112842013-01-12T18:20:00.000-05:002013-02-19T09:59:44.675-05:00Elvis, Moms and Simply chicken <style>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
I was in 7th grade I became an <a href="http://www.elvis.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Elvis</span></a> Fan. I had always been aware of the great legend.
When Elvis died August 16<sup>th</sup>, 1977, I was bombarded with Elvis
movies, music and documentaries. My first Convention was an Elvis one, not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star Trek</i>, as most of my friends believe.
I bought memorabilia and album after album. I met some of his back up singers
and was thrilled to be there. I was trying to get all of his work. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
had seen all of Elvis' movies and liked them. I started to dress like him. I
started to play guitar and sing his songs. I eventually gave up singing (I
couldn't sing) and took up drums. I eventually became a professional drummer
for a while as a young adult. I had Elvis posters along with now lesser-known
the Beautiful <a href="http://transgriot.blogspot.com/2009/11/happy-birthday-jayne-kennedy-overton.html"><span style="color: blue;">Jayne Kennedy</span></a> , who according to her was too
black to be an actress on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Charlie’s Angels</i>.
I also had, of course the black velvet zodiac signs in my room. Elvis' image had the wholesomness of being a good guy, but could also be attractive to women. Since I was a goodie-goodie I waned to be more like Elvis. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
felt a common bond with Elvis because of his legendary closeness with his
mother and his love of music.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
would hear stories about Elvis and the special relationship he had with
his mom. I also knew that Elvis had a twin that didn't survive birth. I had
brothers that didn't survive. My would be little brother, lived for 6 hours and
was even named Mitchel. I sometime wonder what my life would have been like
with a younger brother. Like Elvis, I was the only male that survived. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
began to alter my clothing to look like his Las Vegas Jump suit, Wide legging
my pants, I bought large collar leisure jackets and walked around the house
saying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Ugh,ugh, That's alright
momma",</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"Thank you very
much !"</i> in my best Memphis Elvis accent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
parents have been together for more than 65 years. I have always considered
myself lucky to still have them. The same is true today as it was back then with
most young struggling parents; the further along the family ages the further in
fortune and prosperity. Since I was the last-born, I didn’t have to
experience the struggles that my sisters might have had growing up. Although we
were far from financial security, we were comfortable. Through my father's work
ethic and my mothers rearing I was always clothed, fed, and at 6 years old had
my own room in a house that my parents purchased in 1970. A 3-story brick row-house
in Nicetown Philadelphia. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
remembered my mother would sing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as she
cooked diner. I could tell by the smell of <a href="http://latinfood.about.com/od/seasoningmarinade/r/Recaito-Puerto-Rican-Sofrito.htm"><span style="color: blue;">sofrito</span></a>. The aroma of garlic, peppers onions and
cilantro sauteing permeated the whole house. She would be listening to my cousin Alberto Martino's
afternoon radio show. He was pioneering Latin Disc Jokey in the city at WTEL, the
local AM Spanish station. She never liked cooking. She was just taking care of her
family. She would pass the time singing along to the songs that came over the
radio into the house. I would be watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gilligan’s'
Island</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Monkees</i>, until
dinnertime, after I did my catholic school homework of course. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgfKUQP8F6mZYZPbu0QQuuYlwoOrBbNUr6upwQGwq5-L00KQZspyKCSirC5LiEHfSb9mOX4uF9fu1rqU3u1Os9tES8ZavXgqrtaNckwytswYqgnD8scS9xd18KGFzPMKDDuM0MJ8SGfvH/s1600/DSC_0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgfKUQP8F6mZYZPbu0QQuuYlwoOrBbNUr6upwQGwq5-L00KQZspyKCSirC5LiEHfSb9mOX4uF9fu1rqU3u1Os9tES8ZavXgqrtaNckwytswYqgnD8scS9xd18KGFzPMKDDuM0MJ8SGfvH/s320/DSC_0065.JPG" width="318" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
mother has a combination of strong-mindedness demeanor with a compassionate nature.
She never liked hearing bad news. She was so empathetic feeling others pain,
that she that she would get sick. I get the feeling that she had some kind of
clairvoyance or empathic ability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now
it’s a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>real possibility that she may go
to a nursing facility against my wishes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I
was a momma's boy and now proud to be, but wasn’t always. There was no way of
getting out of that role. I was the 4th child and as mentioned earlier,
the only boy that survived. My mother had seven miscarriages in her life. They
were all males. From the 50's to the late 60s she would have incomplete
pregnancies. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
was also in danger. I was born 2 months premature. I was placed in and
incubator, an isolation chamber in which I could mature until I reached 9
months. It was thought that the incubation would help with the development of a
premature baby in those days. My mother was not able to touch or hold me when I
was an infant. Preemies are very sensitive to touch. This is probably why I
have issues with close contact. A hug for more than 3 seconds and I
am uncomfortable. She always made me feel special. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
mother cooked the usual Puerto Rican dishes. I never knew the following dishes
were poor food, like: Plain Rice and Beans, Potatoes and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dried_and_salted_cod">Bacalao </a>with Olive
Oil, Rice and Eggs and even Rice with canned Corned beef. Once in a while
my mother would cook something that no one else cooks. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Whether it was necessity, ingenuity or both, my mother did make a stewed chicken that was very good and
simple, even without sofrito.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Recipe
as follows</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ingredients
</span></div>
<ul type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Whole fryer Chicken cut up in pieces</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">2 cups diced Onions or 2 large onions</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Water, enough to cover chicken and then some </span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Place
chicken in boiling water.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dice
onions and add to the stewing chicken, add rest of ingredients and stew at
medium heat for about 45 minutes. The chicken will be tender and you can serve
it over rice or vegetables. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
mom was and still is a native New Yorker; she had an adventurous spirit and always
liked to go out. When I was younger she would just pack herself and me with some
clothes, get on the train and end up in either Brooklyn or the Bronx with
relatives. She didn't worry about planning too much or even when she was lost. She
always eventually got there. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR594ZWs1iU7hqkT2liEXysm6MgMpKTIcus8AZKOLPrc_bUPlYa4trRC_UYMo48aag3n7N_kjcMEpiMIRSIAL0kmhU-pucSjVVYtuhBCBctCPJmEwfa0jcfufIDqW2mQ6M-nPM7tw44zbt/s1600/DSC_0331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR594ZWs1iU7hqkT2liEXysm6MgMpKTIcus8AZKOLPrc_bUPlYa4trRC_UYMo48aag3n7N_kjcMEpiMIRSIAL0kmhU-pucSjVVYtuhBCBctCPJmEwfa0jcfufIDqW2mQ6M-nPM7tw44zbt/s320/DSC_0331.JPG" width="217" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
believe I have adopted this philosophy of not planning vacations too much. I
usually just plan a destination and go. Mom is about to go to a nursing home
now. She wishes to see her great grandchildren and is not able to. She wants to
visit Puerto Rico and cannot go. She never learned to swim, but loves the
ocean and is not able to feel sand or the water. She is limited physically and
has been confined to a wheel chair since 2006. She makes her wishes known and I
have tried to accommodate them. Whenever I visit them in another state. I make
sure we are going out somewhere. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her spirit is still there but her body has been
betrayed by the one impulse that her and millions like her cannot resist. The
desire for sweets and the slow degeneration of the body due to diabetes. It is my hope that she finds comfort soon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
love you Mom </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj6q6l7A96o3JQDr20anK3A7w9Kxg62KHStyBi4ODBBUNp_WUXJwzW2YZsKsIxiwI1nDJccYc2BMnKa37-sQPLZBJIWC3lDGSPfG3mZlummTBSf_UJpaYbP5Ln30xYIN1_kLHCK5AJsAjO/s1600/DSC_0331.JPG"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><br /></span></a><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
feel sometimes that I have failed because I haven’t been able to be
successful enough, prosperous enough to make her life more comfortable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
choosing to help others with all of the Youth Work that I have done in the last
20 years. I have failed to help my own. It is a regret that I will have to deal with. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Life sometimes gives you second chances. I have a grandson. </span></div>
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Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-22577403282885119842012-10-08T00:13:00.000-04:002013-02-19T10:01:30.653-05:00Becomming Puerto Rican, Annie, Serrano Ham, Chicken Fricassee and Nicknames<br />
The <i>Nicetown </i>neighborhood had no other Hispanics so it never dawned on me
that I was of Puerto Rican heritage, because it really didn’t matter. All I wanted to do was play with my friends. I knew that
when my uncles would come over for the weekends and play instruments that this
was a Puerto Rican thing. I just didn't know that I was part of it.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
My friends and I would go to <i>Germantown </i>Avenue to buy Earth Wind and Fire and <i>The Commodores</i> singles from the record store. We would hide in parent's basements and listen to <i>Richard
Pryor</i> and <i>Red Fox</i> records, snickering at all of the curse words. I joke about
it now, saying that I grew up Black. I watched <i>Soul Train </i>because <i>American Bandstand</i> was too bland. I went to the <i>GQ</i> shop on <i>Germantown Ave </i>to get stylish clothes. There was also on our block, the Reverend's family that sold fish and chicken dinners to raise funds for his church. I would get the fish and grits.Truly, most of my socialization was
with African American culture. The socialization process has been a such a part of me that to this day I am really comfortable with African Americans. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Even when I would go to <st1:place w:st="on">Puerto Rico</st1:place> for the
summer I always came back to North Philly. To this day being fair skinned usually gives others a perceived freedom to say what they think about people of color. Most people assume that I am full Italian, so their assumptions give them these freedoms.<br />
<br />
I have been in situations that people talk around me about Hispanics and African Americans in derogatory terms and it always made me uncomfortable. Sometimes I would take offense and other times would keep quiet. African Americans always made me feel accepted, more than any other group. There were times that I was uncomfortable being around Philly Puerto Ricans because they didn't have the same experiences that I did. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1SI-Zac9DprDTSi8i4ewHbBs_f2z464GHBHJUc996dMowJRPJODHHDmv0NUTIqBvChiVDYo3HfZ74MoBjP5_Zsxi_pznki7ZrD9FmnnELjqVxn66PtKdLmdvQycr-8e4vZe7IqnED3US/s1600/Annie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1SI-Zac9DprDTSi8i4ewHbBs_f2z464GHBHJUc996dMowJRPJODHHDmv0NUTIqBvChiVDYo3HfZ74MoBjP5_Zsxi_pznki7ZrD9FmnnELjqVxn66PtKdLmdvQycr-8e4vZe7IqnED3US/s1600/Annie.JPG" /></a>There was the one summer when I was about ten that I went to Puerto Rico and stayed with my eldest sister Anne, She was born in <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state>
and ended up in<st1:place w:st="on"> Puerto Rico</st1:place>, She has a very
tan completion and lived a socialite's life. Her husband, Fernando, was a Spaniard
who left the Catholic Seminary to marry my sister. She stole her husband from a
life in the priesthood. He had several businesses. He imported products from <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Spain</st1:place></st1:country> and other
countries. He had a Garage and Tire Shop in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Caguas Puerto Rico</st1:place></st1:city>.
The Shop was above an egg hatchery where every morning I would be greeted by dozens of chirping chicks. My sister was and is beautiful, smart, and tall for a Puerto Rican
women, about 5'9. She is considered the family matriarch. What she says goes, even to
this day. Fernando was slightly shorter. He was bilingual speaking both Castilian
Spanish with the lisp and English. My sister had two daughters. I was an uncle when I was just a year old. My sister would do something that I have
never seen in other families. Whatever my sister was doing during the day didn't
matter, about 4:00 every afternoon she would drop whatever she was doing and go
to her room and get made up. She would put on makeup (and in the 60's and 70s it
was no small thing). She put on a girdle, false eyelashes, make up,
hairspray and a fresh dress or an outfit. She would be ready before her husband came in the house. I believe that is
something that he appreciated. She would serve him dinner (me and my nieces had already eaten by then), and they would have conversations over dinner and later he would watch the horse races. He was also a owner of a Thoroughbred. Later on Fernando would offer me some Iberico or Serrano ham. The Ham had its own stand or rack and he would cut thin slices and offer me some. It was a thinly slice of salty pork that would just melt in your mouth. The ham was totally cured so it could sit out at room temperature. Later when I went to Spain I saw for myself the fascination for the black footed iberico ham raised and fed acorns. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycQd6364eIOCb-IlFLbqML_Ys50qc3UunW2Ia-nJXt1gf_tvT5U5TbaIsB0KSWtAdTDA8yJVBNSbwAIPZov_RPcgLNmmpn_aAplmdacNE1UGzFm1bwWIVkdZS3D47whkqYjt9ZnsDRPCu/s1600/Condo+view+" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycQd6364eIOCb-IlFLbqML_Ys50qc3UunW2Ia-nJXt1gf_tvT5U5TbaIsB0KSWtAdTDA8yJVBNSbwAIPZov_RPcgLNmmpn_aAplmdacNE1UGzFm1bwWIVkdZS3D47whkqYjt9ZnsDRPCu/s320/Condo+view+" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Copy: Isla Verde Beach </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOFvErivROCSodMe-BFEIYkng3EEIzvWvqI_lTf7lQ_dk-Qu0-7UbKo32VcLibKPbrYhFK-QX0Em_1qh2S6oyK7wTVIyKGzG8O8D4AAmMQoNPtKbb_Z2UNDfPlJv3YVLUJUUcvnioYUth/s1600/El+Yunque" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOFvErivROCSodMe-BFEIYkng3EEIzvWvqI_lTf7lQ_dk-Qu0-7UbKo32VcLibKPbrYhFK-QX0Em_1qh2S6oyK7wTVIyKGzG8O8D4AAmMQoNPtKbb_Z2UNDfPlJv3YVLUJUUcvnioYUth/s200/El+Yunque" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Copy : El Yunque Rain For</td></tr>
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My sister and her husband had two condominiums, one in Luquillo and the other in Isla Verde near
the International airport. Both condos overlooked the beautiful beaches. Since my brother-in -law was so successful; my
sister had plenty of time to be a socialite. She met with social clubs, taught exercise
classes before they called them aerobics and always had time to serve as tour guide to my mom and me. We saw many of the tourist sites from the <i>EL Yunque </i>rain Forest to the <i>Castillo</i>.<br />
<br />
Most children that go to <st1:place w:st="on">Puerto Rico</st1:place>
do not have a good experience, greatly due to family members that don't have
time to show young people around. These children stay in their relatives houses
dying of boredom then when asked about <st1:place w:st="on">Puerto Rico</st1:place>,
they usually say that there was nothing there.<br />
<br />
I came back that summer talking Spanish
and with a great tan. I once was scolded by an older man for throwing a chewing
gum wrapper on the ground. He shocked me into picking it up by saying Look !
in Spanish and “Pick it up!” It startled me into realizing that what I had
been doing in North Philly was not to be done in <st1:place w:st="on">Puerto
Rico</st1:place>. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It wore off eventually and I got back to being from Nicetown eventually loosing my Spanish. But in the
back on my head I always though that I was special because I would spend
summers in such a beautiful place . Some of my neighbors didn’t go anywhere.
There were other times that I stayed home for the summers.<i> </i>I never threw a piece f trash on the ground again. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Playing in the street didn’t take much. We all had great imagination. Chuck,
Vincent, Maryann, Bryant, and Kim were all friends that lived on the block. Vincent
was African American but was an albino. Somewhere he got the nickname, <i>Cheesy,
</i>because he was like the color of white cheese. I never knew if he
liked his nickname, but as in Puerto Rican children you don’t have a choice. At
least it wasn’t as harsh as some Puerto Rican nicknames like sin zapato(
without shoes) or <st1:place w:st="on">Coco</st1:place> Duro, as in coconut head ( meaning
that your thick sculled or hard headed). I always wanted a nickname but never got one. That is probably I am always nicknaming others. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p>When My father wasn't working, he would be fixing something electronic or cooking. I watched him cook because that was the only thing that I was really interested in ... Eating. <br />
<br />
He took me to the garage once to see if I would follow in his footsteps. I must have been a little disappointing because I didn't have the Grease-monkey gene. I would help my father by bringing him tools and then I would disappear. My father would scream out, "Where are you!?" and I would say I'm in the bathroom washing my hands. That's when both me and my father knew that this wasn't for me. My father knew that I liked his other passion, cooking. He would call me into the kitchen to help cook, by peeling potatoes or adding some ingredient to a stew.<br />
<br />
My father would sometimes make a his Chicken Fricassee, which is another, break the rules, family recipe just like the <a href="http://sympaticofood.blogspot.com/2012/09/puerto-ricans-blueberriestito-puente.html">Spaghetti with Garlic.</a><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
He would cut up chicken or sometimes goat pieces and fricassee, or slowly braise them, in <a href="http://gan.doubleclick.net/gan_click?lid=41000000024781945&pid=sku6634750&adurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.samsclub.com%2Fsams%2Fwelch-s-100-grape-juice-24-10-oz-bottles%2Fprod6170651.ip%3Fpid%3D_DoubleClick_Affiliates%26ci_src%3D15781033%26ci_sku%3Dsku6634750&usg=AFHzDLvxE4CEdlH0ZoJfRYfTPZLkTZQ18g&pubid=580588"><span style="color: blue;">Welch's
Grape Juice </span></a>instead of wine( the rule breaker). He would of course add the usually Puerto Rican Sofrito (See Daisy Martinez's Recipe for <a href="http://www.daisycooks.com/pages/recipes_detail.cfm?ID=1">Sofrito</a>,
its close to mine). He would add raisins, a bay leaf, some cut up potatoes and braise the poultry or meat in the juice until it was
tender and serve it over white rice. If you want the quantity of ingredients just let me know. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I didn't know it then, but those summers gave me the back-story of my life, surrounding me with memories like a warm blanket in. I love Puerto Rico and go there every chance I get. I love taking groups of friends to the island as well. I give them the tours like my sister used to. It later inspired me to find out why my family left such a beautiful place, but I will save that story for another time . <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwlVW3JNbry_JkdU_lXPSnS3izHAstZw2lJGIDiYN88ZGPOc_d-UVM8t0fkEKiauY5pLcfEnFy5jYXsFtGC3l4bh0D9D6PK9sgv1b4hw0SqX706CBCfcr66cp7UMQR82RX-Uf8QBqhrl5/s1600/ham_serrano" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwlVW3JNbry_JkdU_lXPSnS3izHAstZw2lJGIDiYN88ZGPOc_d-UVM8t0fkEKiauY5pLcfEnFy5jYXsFtGC3l4bh0D9D6PK9sgv1b4hw0SqX706CBCfcr66cp7UMQR82RX-Uf8QBqhrl5/s320/ham_serrano" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Copy : Serrano Ham</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5oKWhQwZ56In_SvcD6AjTNFNAlGcZgII_ymMC_bXXipatRrZKMrvGv6sKwa12UsbteeaOlgZTNbIr3qJMpNqAtht429NXUC0DKyX6pJsxhJ918wFp7thTOkOH1CulVFJ-k1o8y5fzCDsf/s1600/El+morro+" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5oKWhQwZ56In_SvcD6AjTNFNAlGcZgII_ymMC_bXXipatRrZKMrvGv6sKwa12UsbteeaOlgZTNbIr3qJMpNqAtht429NXUC0DKyX6pJsxhJ918wFp7thTOkOH1CulVFJ-k1o8y5fzCDsf/s1600/El+morro+" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Copy: El Moro, Old San Juan Puerto Rico </td></tr>
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<br />Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-9380614011854524362012-09-28T23:18:00.000-04:002012-10-06T10:42:18.783-04:00 How to make Puerto Rican Coffee, and The Spanish American War<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8XTsdC8xsMpssLCBI3xd9RIv395-rWs4pgM08-KwfNfhYo4HsTmlbNHZh1BxMZa9uUPEhSNkhGAFJIdQSBxH8OGF5crsIhcxWM61svj3STZdeN0Gg0Bq9e1NrlKqytLLmo3t7VP0rmxJ6/s1600/Coladora" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8XTsdC8xsMpssLCBI3xd9RIv395-rWs4pgM08-KwfNfhYo4HsTmlbNHZh1BxMZa9uUPEhSNkhGAFJIdQSBxH8OGF5crsIhcxWM61svj3STZdeN0Gg0Bq9e1NrlKqytLLmo3t7VP0rmxJ6/s400/Coladora" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
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<a href="http://kllo.artelista.com/" target="_top">José Luis Hernández Castillo</a>
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Puerto Rican children are too often introduced to coffee at an early age. Coffee is very much a cultural tradition. During the Colonial period, Puerto Rico used to be a large coffee producer. Now Coffee is less produced but there are more gourmet versions of the famous <a href="http://cafedepuertorico.com/CYSGR10C.html">Youco Coffee </a>that is really "mountain" grown. The mountainous climate make great conditions for coffee.<br />
My father would tell stories of his Grandfather Nicolas, the Italian, who ended up in Puerto Rico and started the whole thing. He would tell me that my Great Grandfather Nicolas who arrived in Puerto Rico from Italy in 1890 and loved his ranch and horse so much that he wouldn't get off of his horse to drink his morning coffee. He would ride his horse into the house and his wife would hand him his coffee. Nicolas arrived in Puerto Rico just 8 years before the <i>Spanish American War in 1898</i>.<br />
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The result of this short war that Puerto Rico became a territory of the US along with the Philippines and Guam. Cuba had been promised and eventually gained their independence. Before the War, Cuba and Puerto Rico were known as two wings of the same bird, both seeking Independence from Spain. Puerto Rico was never to see Independance from either Spain or the US. Both of these islands have more in common that any other island or all of Latin American. The food is similar, The evolution of music, and customs and especially the coffee.<br />
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The US granted Cuba its Independence, but their influence on the island never wavered. Corruption and American greed influenced a young aspiring baseball player to create true independence for Cuba. In what some might say a double-cross; The US was expecting a new democratic republic, instead Castro gained power and instituted Cuba as a socialist country.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Copy: Che and Fidel </td></tr>
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Whatever side you are on regarding the Cuban issue; that fact is the long standing embargo and the fall of the USSR has negatively affected Cuba and elevated Puerto Rico's status as the main Caribbean destination for millions of American and International tourists each year. <br />
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The <i>Spanish American War </i>made the US a world power. Spain eventually lost its empire. Who knows, perhaps if the War didn't happen, I might have been born in Italy. My genealogy research indicated that Nicolas was from Italy. My family tells me that they were from Sicily. Perhaps the 1910 Census didn't differentiate between Italians and Sicilians.<br />
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If a man would ride his horse indoors to get coffee it must have been some damn good coffee. <br />
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My Mother used to make Puerto Rican Coffee. She would use a <i>Colador</i>, which was a cloth coffee filter used after she boiled the coffee in water. She would wait until the boiling mixture would rise at least twice, both times removing from the fire and then returning it to the fire until the boiling mixture would rise.<br />
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In a separate pot she would boil the milk. She would filter the coffee through the coladora and then pour the concentrated coffee extract into the milk and then add sugar. She would use <a href="http://www.javacabana.com/catalog.cfm?sc=3">Bustelo or Pilon Coffee</a> Just as in the Puerto Rican Rice pot, the cloth filter got better with time. The color of the filter would eventually turn a dark brown from the Coffee. My mother would have coffee with milk and sometimes fill the coffee cup with crackers or toasted bread and consume the coffee and bread mixture with the spoon. We often had coffee and bread this way. My Dad would have his coffee black with sugar. My dad had a peculiar way of sitting. He would sit in a kitchen chair with one foot on the seat. His elbow resting on his elevated knee where he would sip his coffee. To this day he can drink black coffee day and night and even go to sleep afterwards. That's why I assumed that black coffee was for strong men like <a href="http://www.sympaticofood.blogspot.com/2012/09/superman-accidents-and-black-coffee.html">Clark Kent </a>,who wore glasses like my father.<br />
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My friend Donny's mom used to make us coffee as well. I met Donny in fifth grade. He had just come recently from Puerto Rico and had been in Mr. Fairchild's ESL (English as a Second language Class). I would hang out on his house on Percy street. His step father was a big hard working man like my father. He had a Great genuine smile and would show it every time he would enter his house. He seemed genuinely happy to be home. He was a burly man with curly greying hair. To me, he resembled Tito Puente. Donny's mom was a sweet short women who also reminded my of my mom. She was short but fierce. There seems to be a correlation with Short Puerto Rican women and strong personalities. My Daughter would definitely be included in that club. Donny's mom when making coffee used the same Puerto Rican method my mom did, but used very little coffee and added lots of sugar. It was more like coffee flavored milk and sugar than coffee. I never complained. It was cultural taboo to complain to an adult that offered you food or drink . As a matter of fact it was considered impolite to accept the offer of food the first time and polite to say no thank you when offered food. Even if I was starving I would say no thank you. Most Puerto Rican Hosts would still serve you. This only became confusing when I would go to house of other culture. I would say no thank you and the adult would say "okay," and walk away, leaving me famished. <br />
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"Buen Provecho", is a custom that if often confusing to others . It is customary to say "Buen Provecho" upon entering an area where people are already eating, as to say Bon Apetito in Italian. I really never understood wishing someone well if they are already eating. Being from Philadelphia , people that don't know us would consider us rude. Philadelphia custom dictate that you shouldn't say anything as to disturb the person eating. This has caused me problems in the past. If you didn't say Buen Provecho" everyone's eyes would come off their food and towards you. <br />
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My favorite coffee is <i>Pilon</i>. Its a dark roast coffee with surprisingly nuttier than bitter taste. Its still espresso roasted. I get the whole bean coffee online direct. I like to grind the coffee myself. I use a home Italian Coffee maker the water steams up the bottom reservoir and filters up through the coffee grounds. This makes for better coffee since American Drip Coffee makers do not heat up to the right temperature due to regulations that are designed to prevent scalding and the lawsuits that can follow. <i> </i><br />
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<i>Disclaimer if you try this method, beware, its very hot.</i><br />
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I have reduced my coffee consumption to one cup a day. That is enough to kick start my day. At the time of this entry since I was romanticizing Coffee , I had two cups while dreaming of visiting Cuba. <br />
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Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-36329227170406910222012-09-27T23:28:00.001-04:002012-10-06T10:49:43.577-04:00Becomming a Nerd, Ms Bertha, Geramantown Ave, Slices of Pizza, and Charlotte's Web <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Photo </td></tr>
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I am a Youth Worker that have made a career working with Young people. I ran supporting programs for children and teens in schools and currently run after school enrichment for High School Students. I often struggle with delivering the outcomes of the programs and my desire for youth to learn the experience of discovery that I did as a child.<br />
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The Time was the early 70s. There were no real after school programs. There was the PAL centers for athletes and the Boys Clubs for the more needy kids. Me, I used to go to the Nicetown Library after school after obtaining my Library card. Once I learned I could take books out for free. I thought it was great .<br />
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I was a skimmer with books. I would never read them through. I used to skim the encyclopedia, <i>that we had, that must have cost my parents a fortune,</i> reading for hours but never read a full article. <br />
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Ms Bertha was the little grey haired sweet low voiced authoritative African American librarian, She was small, and moved in small purposeful gestures. She was most geisha like in her movement. Just reaching for a pencil seemed like a ballet. She could get us to quiet down without screaming of talking down to us. Only with a smile that seem both serious and sincere. A much different approach than the nuns at the elementary school.<br />
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Amongst the posters of the <i>Apollo Astronauts, John F Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr</i>. she asked gently about my interest. She would recommend books. I would read through the <i>5 Chinese Brothers, Paul Bunyon </i>and <i>Dr Seusse.</i><br />
She asked me to do the Read-athon where you had to read a number of books get rewards.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Copy</td></tr>
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I used to never read the books. I would just skim over them, answer a couple of questions and get stars towards my reading goal. I really though I was getting over. Ms Bertha continued giving me stars. She then recommended a book that I was interested in. I loved animals and had all kinds of pets at home like gerbils, frogs, dogs cats and white mice.<br />
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<i>Lesson : never have a cat and mice in the same house at the same time. </i><br />
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After a while my conscience started to bother me. She handed me <i>Charlotte's Web </i>and I read the first page. I just kept reading page after page. I identified with <i>"Fern"</i> in the story because I was always trying to save animals. <br />
The book showed me that I could read a chapter book cover to cover. I still struggled through books still skimming first. I did get the courage to read them after all.<br />
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The children's Libray sometimes had events arranged by Ms Bertha. Sometimes she would show a film, I mean with a film projector. I saw movies like the original King Kong and Bugs Bunny. This was a time before VCRs and DVDs. After spending time at the library and before going home I would go to Germantown Ave for some Pizza. <br />
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Pizza Quality has really suffered more than any other food. A lot of entrepreneurs think they can turn the combination of simple cheap ingredients: flour, sauce and cheese into a cash cow. They are right! Pizza chops are all over and do great business. There are only a few that do it well. <br />
I would sometimes head out to the King of Pizza parlor on Germantown ave .<br />
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This is where I came to love Pizza. It's owned by two brothers that have been and are still there to this day. They are known as one of the treasure spots in that area, They outlived <i>Moma Rosa's</i> Souls food restaurant , <i>Medow Lanes</i> Rotisserie chicken( currently not the original owners ) , Head off and Split fish shop, Vincent's barber shop where my dad and I used to go and most of the shops on the Ave.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Photo</td></tr>
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King of Pizza's approach is simple. Just 3 varieties of pizza, plain, peperoni and beef sausage and fountain drinks. They never made Cheesesteakes<i>(Philadelphia Cheesesteaks for you outsiders, we just call them Cheesesteaks)</i>, or other sandwiches or delivered and closed when the avenue closed.<br />
The exception was that their three simple choices was done better than anyone else could.<br />
I cant help wondering how many of their children they put through college with this simple approach.<br />
They are still there today <br />
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I didn't know what a nerd was until I watched <i>Happy Days</i>. I wanted to be the<i> Fonz</i>. I was always more like <i>Richie </i>, shy, smart, awkward and hesitant to take risks . I was a nerd! So I became a Jr. library aid.<br />
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Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-44094767163261767842012-09-25T20:59:00.002-04:002012-09-26T07:18:41.479-04:00Martin Luther King Jr. Girard College and cousin ChinoBefore moving to Nicetown, we lived in a third floor apartment overlooking Girard College at 22nd and West college.<br />
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Girard College was and still is an independent boarding school for orphaned or fatherless children. It used to be only for white male children.<br />
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It has evolved, since then to include all children, both boys and girls, and children of all colors. It wasn't always so.<br />
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During the Civil Rights movement Girard College was at the center of Philadelphia's struggles for social justice. My parents were directly involved in one of the city's historical events.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> File Photo:Trolley Car</td></tr>
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The apartment that we lived in was a third floor apartment that overlooked the Stone walls that surround the college (see photo below). I remember looking over the wall as a child but was always more interested with watching for and listening to the <i>PTC Trolley(before Septa it was the Philadelphia Transportation Company)</i>, that would screech as it hit the curve right outside my door. I was told that my parents were asked by several news teams if they could take film and photographs from the apartment, since the apartment had the vantage point that they wanted. They agreed of course.<br />
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Cecil B Moore was leading the local N.A.A.C.P. and along with A. Phillip Randolf who both were holding civil rights demonstrations at the school. MLK also visited the twice, the first time was in 1965 when I was just over a year old. <br />
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Historical Excerpts below are from <br />
http://northerncity.library.temple.edu/content/timeline<br />
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<i><b>1965: </b></i><br />
<i><b>February 6:</b> <a href="http://northerncity.library.temple.edu/people-and-places/moore-cecil-b?civil_rights_popup=true" target="_blank">Cecil B. Moore</a> is re-elected President of local NAACP. Moore sees his re-election as a mandate to make the desegregation of <a href="http://northerncity.library.temple.edu/people-and-places/girard-college?civil_rights_popup=true" target="_blank">Girard College</a> a top policy priority.<br /><br /><b>May 1:</b> Led Cecil B. Moore, the NAACP begins picketing at Girard College.<br /><br /><b>August 3:</b> On a visit to Philadelphia, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., addresses demonstrators at Girard College.<br /><br /><b>December 16:</b>
A suit challenging Girard College’s admissions policy is filed in U.S.
District Court by city and state officials, as well as the mothers of
seven African-American boys seeking admission to the school. The next
day, picketing ends at Girard College after seven months of protests.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-EQRHQ8j5mGXvRDREyuZ9JZAduoqyQqKrnhWFUjHD5LW5dyFL8PyYWQKzGsIrNA3z9Id8ErTr9j_iGsgLAg0A221ou94meXSGOwFgZMKmPCz07H6telyk3VCkv1gQUzsTjyO2kOoc0Yd/s1600/Girard+College+" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-EQRHQ8j5mGXvRDREyuZ9JZAduoqyQqKrnhWFUjHD5LW5dyFL8PyYWQKzGsIrNA3z9Id8ErTr9j_iGsgLAg0A221ou94meXSGOwFgZMKmPCz07H6telyk3VCkv1gQUzsTjyO2kOoc0Yd/s400/Girard+College+" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Temple U archive Photo </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><b>September 2 1966:</b> U.S. District Court Judge Joseph S. Lord rules that, under Pennsylvania law, African-Americans cannot be excluded from <a href="http://northerncity.library.temple.edu/people-and-places/girard-college?civil_rights_popup=true" target="_blank">Girard College</a> on the basis of race. In October, picketing resumes at Girard College after the trustees vote to appeal Judge Lord’s decision</i><i> to the school. The next
day, picketing ends at Girard College after seven months of protests.</i><br />
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It wasn't until 1968 that the whole situation was resolved. I never knew that these things ever happened. I learned about these events while I was studying at Temple U. I asked my parents and they told me the reporters story.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQKpjnbQi8wWcjkEqMwUq2rTu0Yd4x4syFdYQZiGNMVjOn_A_WXcOoiF5-MNvZpMhztiof2jCAqr9YQsUOYi3eaAwSLfkM5eP1w72jGm1EKkDRPl0fjqA4q7O2ESgP_yLIV-_BhNK8rgG/s1600/MLK" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQKpjnbQi8wWcjkEqMwUq2rTu0Yd4x4syFdYQZiGNMVjOn_A_WXcOoiF5-MNvZpMhztiof2jCAqr9YQsUOYi3eaAwSLfkM5eP1w72jGm1EKkDRPl0fjqA4q7O2ESgP_yLIV-_BhNK8rgG/s320/MLK" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Copy MLK Speech in PR. Feb,1962</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I remember reading about MLK's visit to Puerto Rico. and I am paraphrasing, but I remember him mentioning that Puerto Rico was better at race relations than the US. He was referring to Puerto Ricans calling themselves Puerto Ricans first, not black Puerto Ricans, white Puerto Ricans or Indian Puerto Ricans, just Puerto Ricans . I think that if he had stood longer than four days, he would have seen some of the racial struggles on the island.<br />
If you compared Puerto Rico with the US at the time, you would also say that they were ahead of the curve. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mesadedialogomlk.com/portal/Documentos/Entries/2011/1/5_Martin_Luther_King_speaks_in_Puerto_Rico,_1962.html">Martin's speech in Puerto Rico. Feb 1962</a><br />
<br />
Growing up in a mixed neighborhood where my friends were from all backgrounds and colors I never had and other perspective than it was all beautiful. I could eat Turkish, Irish-American, Soul food and my Puerto Rican food at home. I was more concerned with playing with my friends, not where they came from. <br />
<br />
More than that was the fact that there are members of my own family are of different colors. Puerto Ricans have a shared history with African Americans, Europeans and Native Americans. <br />
<br />
My cousin Raymond, we called him "Chino" because he had more Native American or Asian features. He had high cheekbones, jet black hair and shinny olive skin. He was also almost six feet tall and had a strong lean look. He was one of the first Puerto Rican men to go through the Philadelphia Police academy in the 60s. I remember him visiting my family in his tan academy uniform and tossing me up in the air as an older cousin would. He later became a detective in the 25th district at Front and Venango streets in the 70s and 80s. Very little is documented about my cousin. The memories of him along with my other cousin Alberto<i>(the city's pioneering Puerto Rican DJ</i>), have faded. I want to bring light into our family's pride in remembering them.<br />
<br />
I am also grateful for having grown up with both parents. Now knowing first hand from both of my cousins too early deaths featured in the blog. Loosing them both too early has affected our family, especially their children.<br />
<br />
I would honor them to make sure that their memories survive. Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-23287066816001010592012-09-20T22:57:00.000-04:002012-09-29T07:04:13.449-04:00Puerto Ricans, Blueberries,Tito Puente and Spaghetti with Garlic <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9EuKGCEcVd08UXR-nuwsbanWzB4sB97OM7zteqWi14MdHqmwMbqVRnH8fSlYB51zyEQgVW4-wi0zDd_QLcCbNZYKG36m2Yy45He3bJWS1nUHncqvgE12pzMzMvE8Ro64YQ-wDty06E6h/s1600/TitoPuente.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9EuKGCEcVd08UXR-nuwsbanWzB4sB97OM7zteqWi14MdHqmwMbqVRnH8fSlYB51zyEQgVW4-wi0zDd_QLcCbNZYKG36m2Yy45He3bJWS1nUHncqvgE12pzMzMvE8Ro64YQ-wDty06E6h/s200/TitoPuente.jpg" width="154" /></a></div>
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</style> I was born on 19th and Green Streets in Philadelphia. The Spring Garden
neighborhood was the original center of the Puerto Rican enclave in the city.
My parents came from New York. My mother was raised there and attended school
with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tito_Puente">Tito Puente</a>. He was an upper classman in her high school. She was an only
child who was abandoned by her father and thus never knew him. Her mother died
of cancer while my mother was still young woman. My father arrived in New
York in 1951 at the age of 20 after my grandfather arrived to start a new
living. My father spent some time in New York. My parents met in Brooklyn and
got married. My sister was born there in 1956. Some time later my parents moved
to Philadelphia. I was born in 1964.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw3HsBjWeaB0PB36LokZZSSqllnvbFLrZwsvDVtY0KT56DsbzlJcPWVLStQYu9f7dKjHuCrdnCtoJBtx-ralkEKqBDlXx5sKSu84kHVwY2QJrLuin5ovev4tI4vGoA2axMMVbly4O9gVz/s1600/Model+T+fords" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw3HsBjWeaB0PB36LokZZSSqllnvbFLrZwsvDVtY0KT56DsbzlJcPWVLStQYu9f7dKjHuCrdnCtoJBtx-ralkEKqBDlXx5sKSu84kHVwY2QJrLuin5ovev4tI4vGoA2axMMVbly4O9gVz/s200/Model+T+fords" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Archive Photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Before arriving to the states my grandfather was a man of some
prominence in Ponce Puerto Rico. He owned an auto repair business and at a
time where you were considered well off if you had a car. He had two cars. My
Grandfather worked on Ford Model T’s and was first generation Puerto Rican and
half Italian. He had a strong personality, from what I am told. I never met my
grandfather; he passed before I was a year old.<br />
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<br />
My Padrino(Godfather), Uncle Robert before he passed this year (sadly from
cancer), he told me a story about my father and uncle Angelo selling rice and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"tosino"</i> (fatback) during the
Great Depression. My grandfather had stored the Puerto Rican staples, like rice
and fatback in his repair shop. My dad and uncle were hustling the food to the
townspeople unbeknownst to my Grandfather until a customer came into his shop
asking for his sons, because he was out of rice. Once finding out my father and
uncle had to hide out in in the cemetery that grandfather’s house overlooked.
My grandmother would hand them food and blankets until grandfather cooled off
which was about three days. My father always told me that he slept in a cementary when he was young ,but he always edited the part of selling his fathers stored supplies. <br />
<br />
<br />
My grandmother was one of these short in stature, but fierce in nature
Puerto Rican women. She had to be fierce. She had more than seven children. She
was also a relation of the transformational governor of Puerto Rico, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luis_Mu%C3%B1oz_Mar%C3%ADn">Luis Munoz Marin</a>, </i>responsible for the
Commonwealth status of the island. My Grandfather and Granduncle Colin lived
through the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ponce_massacre">Ponce Massacre </a>against the Nationalist’s peaceful procession
inspired by Puerto Rico’s Independence leader, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pedro_Albizu_Campos">Don Pedro Albizu Campos</a>.
Granduncle Colin, father of the pioneering Puerto Rican Radio Disc Jokey, in the city Alberto,
told me a few years back that he hid as a boy under a house where some people
were killed in front of him.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi393plrWcaAXC_ukIHWWq_xRjpQwvhi4-1juIONrirVmTsVuFT5CcDVUdCTc0QX0gK458BDKd8QzKRD9q5ht-ibD0Ujj9JzVerqrq0J04BKvU0dy3mCBCF1Zmj7JX_yumyERghZuZc-CbU/s1600/Ponce+Masacre" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi393plrWcaAXC_ukIHWWq_xRjpQwvhi4-1juIONrirVmTsVuFT5CcDVUdCTc0QX0gK458BDKd8QzKRD9q5ht-ibD0Ujj9JzVerqrq0J04BKvU0dy3mCBCF1Zmj7JX_yumyERghZuZc-CbU/s320/Ponce+Masacre" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Archive Ponce Massacre photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1R4x6JRgwkmwbny-Vu33wsEAXodF5OQhTuBAYvjhnA9zwhjjQ9yOB_CwmdGg77n0YoayzKLpFfuOlqaUtfmhjEB8q74FD2Bai_LZiW9DcOy5cbdjN8LM7vbWuMIc7WLABa-Yy0yXjoMD/s1600/Campos2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1R4x6JRgwkmwbny-Vu33wsEAXodF5OQhTuBAYvjhnA9zwhjjQ9yOB_CwmdGg77n0YoayzKLpFfuOlqaUtfmhjEB8q74FD2Bai_LZiW9DcOy5cbdjN8LM7vbWuMIc7WLABa-Yy0yXjoMD/s1600/Campos2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Archive Photo of Don Pedro</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Other Puerto Ricans came to Philly to obtain seasonal work in the 50s, 60s
and early 70s. By the 70s Puerto Ricans avoided the exploitative sometimes-brutal
work conditions and sought there fortunes elsewhere. Farms looked to new people
to work, undocumented Mexican workers. Due to the new anti-immigration laws
preventing farms to hire illegals, they are looking at poor island Puerto
Ricans again. There used to be school busloads that would come into the neighborhood
and transport many Puerto Ricans to the blueberry farms in Jersey. I couldn’t
understand at the time why they called these busses the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Pepa buses”(</i>blueberry buses) if the were all yellow school buses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">They later had multiple colors. </span>Philly is right over the bridge to Jersey. Puerto
Ricans mostly males would gather at pick up points at 3 am to work the fields,
they would earn money by the barrel.<br />
<br />
My sister and I went to St Francis Xavier Catholic elementary school in Fairmount.
I was in First and she was in eighth Grade. Catholic school was way more
affordable than it is today. It was still a sacrifice for my mechanic father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t too far Moving from Fairmount
section to NiceTown. After getting of the first grade jitters I had to move to
a new neighborhood and a new school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> File Photo: St. Stephens Church</td></tr>
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I finished first Grade at St Stephen’s Catholic school located at Broad a
Butler. I remember being disappointed on the first day because it was picture-receiving
day. All of my classmates had taken their pictures before I arrived and were
being handed their portraits. They were taking them out and showing to each
other. I remember feeling so isolated and alone as a new student with no
pictures.<br />
<br />
I did make some friends. There was Baron, Todd, Donovan, Jimmy Michael,
Brian, Holly, Ava and especially Francisco. It was a mixed school with White,
Brown and a few Latino students. I remember going to see Mr. Fairchild since
that’s where all the Hispanic children went since he was the second language
specialist. Since I spoke English clearly and was reasonably intelligent, he
returned me to regular classes.<br />
<br />
Frankie, as we called him, too was a bright kind friend. We became friends
almost immediately. I would go to his house to hang out. My father would often
worry, erroneously, because I was fair skinned and had to walk past a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nation of Islam</i> school on Butler St. and
Germantown ave in order to go to Frankie’s house. I never had any problem with
NOI men, as a matter of fact they gave me bean-pies all of the time.<br />
<br />
Frankie’s mother would always make us sandwiches after playing. I didn’t
meet his father until I got older. He was a chef at a hotel and then at an
Italian restaurant where I got my first cooking job. I later became friends
with his brother, Angel as well. Frankie had caught the shingles and was left back due to to many absences. Sadly Frankie passed when he was just a young man. I had already become closer friends with Angel at the time of his
death. My later girlfriend and future ex wife though that Frankie was the
handsome one of his family. I always felt a little guilty that I didn’t spend
more time with him before he died. When you loose someone in such a way, I guess
there are always "what ifs...".<br />
<br />
My father worked hard all week, but on rare occasions would invite me to
cook with him. Sometimes waking me up in the middle of the night. We would make
Spaghetti and Garlic. It’s a family recipe from my Italian heritage. My father
would make spaghetti and cook the garlic in Olive Oil. He broke all the rules
when it came to Olive oil and Garlic. His recipe calls for frying the garlic
until its black and bitter to taste and the oil is smoking up the kitchen. He
would then pour the garlic infused oil over the spaghetti sizzling the pasta in
the process. He would add a little salt and Voilà! This is the family recipe
for spaghetti and garlic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will
hopefully show my grandson how to make when he is old enough.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr3fg1EavzeM4sbBfnwACTyN9KXHzDIGtYmybHBDG_N7dzox3KXUspoBOXmC3ZflwFpVLkoz0WO9zf2aj5oyj-De6uYdPQfInrRn1h4_-eSkmzNaaqzwjnvAepNSNfqW8ASQAkUi-cRXbC/s1600/spaghetti-garlic-oil-mslb7004_vert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr3fg1EavzeM4sbBfnwACTyN9KXHzDIGtYmybHBDG_N7dzox3KXUspoBOXmC3ZflwFpVLkoz0WO9zf2aj5oyj-De6uYdPQfInrRn1h4_-eSkmzNaaqzwjnvAepNSNfqW8ASQAkUi-cRXbC/s1600/spaghetti-garlic-oil-mslb7004_vert.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-42445741666886803642012-09-20T09:20:00.004-04:002013-09-06T13:17:17.993-04:00Chinatown, La Preciosa and the GAF Viewmaster<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Who cooks for
real any more? Families today go out so regularly to restaurants and dine every
weekend that it hardly seems special any more. In my family it was a special
event. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sadly most
American families don’t cook food anymore. Spaghetti sauce from a jar,<i>
Hamburger Helper, dehydrated mashed potatoes</i> is considered cooking. I grew
up eating at home. I later learned to cook from family, friends and
restaurants that I worked for. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My mother
cooked every night. In good times we had steak, in lean times we had rice and
eggs or rice and Vienna sausage. I never noticed the difference. The food was
good. At that time I believe home cooked food was cheaper than fast food. I
never had fast food until we moved to Nicetown and the utilities hadn’t been
turned on so my family ate at <i>Gino's</i> hamburgers on Broad St the Roosevelt
Boulevard.<i> Ginos</i> was an area favorite. They had the <i>Gino</i>
Giant. McDonalds actually modeled their Big Mac after that
sandwich. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjje7_zf3oq7bcJV6jmSW9LKQV3-x4xwyS7DBBZTFi66eABovyJ0HdIFmfhalrtkU1iSDARjLWUAWGEkTV7zIe4hvvWN_cG4i-GrEwX5PuxOkTsIAkwRSkFeRL9raqyHdbdp3-LCQHUs9na/s1600/Ginos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjje7_zf3oq7bcJV6jmSW9LKQV3-x4xwyS7DBBZTFi66eABovyJ0HdIFmfhalrtkU1iSDARjLWUAWGEkTV7zIe4hvvWN_cG4i-GrEwX5PuxOkTsIAkwRSkFeRL9raqyHdbdp3-LCQHUs9na/s320/Ginos.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gino's File Photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The next time
I had fast food was a few years later when my childhood friend, Maryann's
mother took us to see Barbara Streisand in <i>"What’s up Doc"</i> and
we went to a <i>Burger King</i>. I do love a good burger. Later a <i>McDonalds</i>
showed up and change everything. I also remember those burger king and
McDonalds commercials that were mini- stories with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ronald</i>, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hamburgler </i>and
my favorite was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Grimace</i>, who
originally had two sets of arms. I remember that the commercials were part of
my Saturday morning ritual. I never realized that they were marketing crappy
food to me until I got considerably older. I am grateful that my parents,
either through economic or practical reasons limited my access to this Crap. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNLAshh_BOjPfguYss5BU5zA27m-CQfjPXtitFMgXxa_o4TpQTSrqHvW8v-ugbKqmGrQPsFjPjFSS841XxlWSXcDiKP3bI7WZYQhHRCA621lwsf_C7zcHj1e-2b_yBzikzUQH26-ck84YH/s1600/GAF-ViewMaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNLAshh_BOjPfguYss5BU5zA27m-CQfjPXtitFMgXxa_o4TpQTSrqHvW8v-ugbKqmGrQPsFjPjFSS841XxlWSXcDiKP3bI7WZYQhHRCA621lwsf_C7zcHj1e-2b_yBzikzUQH26-ck84YH/s320/GAF-ViewMaster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I never saw
Disney films as a child. I got all my Disney’s images from Maryann’s GAF Viewmaster.
You know, it was the slide show viewer that you would click to see the next
slide (Tip, Never walk while looking through a GAF Viewmaster). Her brother
Michael always tried to get me to play baseball or stick ball but since I was
never any good at it. I would just hag out more with Maryann. Until I
reached pre-adolescence when her mom limited her availability. I remember in
second grade carrying her books when she came to my school as a first grader.
That's what gentlemen do. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When my father
decided that it was time to go out we would go out to eat, it was an event. We
would get dresses up and drive or take the Trolley to a few of my parent’s
favorite places. When my parents did go out they would go to 2 places
that I remember, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Preciosa</i> and
Chinatown</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">La Preciousa was
a Puerto Rican chef owned restaurant. His restaurant was where Latinos went
when they wanted something special. It was located down the street from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Teatro Puerto Rico</i> where Latinos in the
city would go to watch movies in Spanish. They were mostly Mexican movies at Germantown
between Susquehanna and diamond streets. It was the dinner and movie spot for
Philadelphia Latinos. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There is a lot
of pride in cooking for Puerto Ricans. Every family knows who makes the best <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pasteles.( Puerto Rican version of a tamale)
</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Endless arguments would be debated
on whose grandmother makes the best food. No one would dispute that La Preciosa
had great food. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was a
humble place with simple table and chairs. It had clear plastic table covers
covering the red tablecloths underneath. There would be salsa and Puerto Rican
music coming from the jukebox that would continue playing during dinner. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On Saturdays
it was <i>Sancocho </i>day. <i>Sancocho</i> is a thick gelatinous soup with
tripe and root vegetables made with pork stock that is on my list as an automatic
sleep inducer similar to Thanksgiving dinner. The <i>Sancocho</i> was a
meal in itself. I would sometimes order a steak with onions, which was
different from the one my mother used to make. My mother used to make Bistec
ecebollado . Puerto Rican cube steak sautéed and slow cooked in onions and
vinegar. Cube steak is a cheap cut of meat that is cubed or perforated to cut
the connective tissue of the meat to make it tenderer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La
Preciosa</i>, Chef's steak was a better cut, usually a strip or porterhouse steak
perfectly grilled with the same slowly simmered onions in vinegar. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was saddened
to learn that after the Chef died, the place went down hill. Becoming
a first a go-go bar then nuisance bar and finally closing in the late 70s.
In my opinion there are no matches for Puerto Rican food in the city since. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sorry Freddy
and Tony’s and Porky’s Point. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZeyObpPhixumQoesz5pxgeAGqaDmjNhLMEjpVnH9-ThMaXN3GwXE_hVXnIK5yTG1vtLePCY0uKezCk4iBOV8lvMOe-2QBL7fo2xndDOaUdRKZQPt_J43ZT2OwIT9pnuVAObko9kg5AaK/s1600/Chinatown-Philadelphia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZeyObpPhixumQoesz5pxgeAGqaDmjNhLMEjpVnH9-ThMaXN3GwXE_hVXnIK5yTG1vtLePCY0uKezCk4iBOV8lvMOe-2QBL7fo2xndDOaUdRKZQPt_J43ZT2OwIT9pnuVAObko9kg5AaK/s200/Chinatown-Philadelphia.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The other
place would be Chinatown. Of course I remembered the tea and fortune cookies.
My dad’s and my favorite dish was always <i>Egg Foo Young</i>. A scrambled egg omelet
with crunchy bean sprouts, green onions and sometimes shrimp or chicken topped
off with thick brown gravy and served over white rice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t get my Coke there. There was a time
that Chinatown didn't serve soft drinks, just tea. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On their rare
occasion in Fairmount my father would take us to Beatos pizza for spaghetti and
meatballs. It was a local restaurant that was near the Museums that my sister
would take me to when she wanted to talk to boys. Remember, I was her
tattletale and she would take me to the Franklin Institute, The Philadelphia
Library or the Art Museum. She tried to placate me into not telling mom. I
didn't care. Whether meaning to or not she sparked my curiosity in science, art
and stories. The museums were free for children and it didn't matter if it was
just for a little while. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was both
scared and enthralled with the giant heart that you could and still walk
through. Beatos was usually a weekday treat. If my mother didn’t cook which
meant that she was usually not feeling well, we would go to Batos. I usually had
my father favorite Spaghetti and meatballs. The meal was simple and good
with lots of Parmesan cheese. I try to cook at home most of the time. When I go
out its more to socialize with friends, coworkers and sometime with my students
that I work with. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Below are some
of the places I visit and recommend.</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Italian food I
go to either Ralph’s or the Bistro Romano (where I used to perform in their
mystery dinner theater) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<a href="http://www.ralphsrestaurant.com/"><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ralph's Italian Restaurant</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<a href="http://www.bistroromano.com/"><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bistro Romano</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<a href="http://www.sangkeechinatown.com/"><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">San Kee Duck House</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<a href="http://www.tokaipa.com/">To-Kai Japanese Hibachi</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<a href="http://www.terakawaramenphilly.com/"><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Terakawa Ramen House </span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYY9TV9xsnNpHVZAXL9pkT8Omy7BljmDjn_kLagt9dEghyvgvY11pPrA46LNPxtesPr9evp-Rw6OVg0dGc1d9gMCR_t6ISF2UABo0H_93R6067SLFwj5bI7s9sCTKkT4MXLMm-vmMxiyk9/s1600/san+kee" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYY9TV9xsnNpHVZAXL9pkT8Omy7BljmDjn_kLagt9dEghyvgvY11pPrA46LNPxtesPr9evp-Rw6OVg0dGc1d9gMCR_t6ISF2UABo0H_93R6067SLFwj5bI7s9sCTKkT4MXLMm-vmMxiyk9/s320/san+kee" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-30342226137391906212012-09-18T23:40:00.000-04:002012-09-29T07:58:36.293-04:00 Kresge's, Hoagies, Sofrito, MLK and Mr Spock <style>
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</style> Before we moved to Nicetown, we lived in <i>Fairmount</i>. My Mom was a homemaker
and was my caretaker most of the time. Sometimes she would leave me with Mrs.
Marie when my sister was in school and she was visiting my father during his
bout with Tuberculosis. He spent a lot of time there. They used to quarantine
TB patients for a long while. Marie's apartment was downstairs from ours where she lived with
her husband. Mrs. Marie was the one that introduced me to Apple butter on
Wonder bread (they advertised as the more nutritious vitamin enriched bread).
She reminded me of a traditional granny with a bird, oval living room rug,
rocking chair, crotchet needles and an old fashioned Ice Box for which she had
ice delivered twice a week. Ice was placed in the top of the box and so the cold
would travel downward and would cool the box so that you could keep milk cold.
You had to drain the drip pan daily otherwise you would have puddles in the
kitchen.<br />
<br />
To this day when I eat apple butter on whole grain bread, I still think of
her.<br />
<br />
My mom was a incredible. She would never let anything stop her. She was a
real homemaker. She would keep her humble house clean as a whistle. She would
rearrange furniture by herself. I remember once her moving the refrigerator to
get the dust bunnies that would collect beneath and on the compressor grill on
the back. I would be dragged with her to do all of the shopping. Before
there were shopping malls near Philly you had to go shopping on the avenue or
go to Market Street in center city.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEpagUd1uuQVAX6NJA8CajdUSjq8oLIeNx89oEuTGeiy-YLh_BmxzhC0jW3EK6LKuEodsbkZLDFRBhjJ9JySUZzFx7IIN_Nbmb5cCVG4Ziuv0fkH4NMDSgcwxYvwHqUSoelJ77WAfHvo_D/s1600/kresgees" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEpagUd1uuQVAX6NJA8CajdUSjq8oLIeNx89oEuTGeiy-YLh_BmxzhC0jW3EK6LKuEodsbkZLDFRBhjJ9JySUZzFx7IIN_Nbmb5cCVG4Ziuv0fkH4NMDSgcwxYvwHqUSoelJ77WAfHvo_D/s320/kresgees" width="248" /></a></div>
<br />
Although <i>Woolworth's</i> was the king of the 5 & Dime. There was also <i>Wannamaker’s,
Lit Brothers, Gimbels</i> and my favorite, <i>Kiddie City</i>. My mother would often
go to <i>Kresge's</i> five and dime department store (the company eventually became K-Mart)
where I remembered tasting my first Hoagie. My mom and I went to the lunch
counter. I remember biting into that mix of deli meats, cheeses, lettuce, tomatoes,
onions and the kicker was the oregano and oil. I was hooked. That and a
fountain Coke I drank from one of those curvy coke glasses with a straw and the
world was right.<br />
<br />
I didn't know about Vietnam or Politics in general. I would
see images of Martin Luther King Jr and Bobby Kennedy and wonder who they
were. There was a picture of JFK on our wall. I later learned that is was a portrait that was a special edition insert from the newspaper. <br />
<br />
Other times we went to Horn and Hardart's. I would almost always have
the egg custard or rice pudding. No one makes egg custard any more, Why!
There are other outdated foods like Creamed Chipped beef or Chicken a la King.
I just can't figure why custard had to fade away. Horn and Hardart's egg custard
was so creamy and good. I would just melt in your mouth. The creamy goodness
would go down and leave you with a taste of vanilla and a hint of nutmeg. It
was however different that the flan and rice pudding we had at home. My father
would make rice pudding with cream of coconut cloves and lots of cinnamon and
raisins. It was thicker in consistency than regular rice pudding, much like
Thai sticky rice. My dad never made flan at home. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicX2pFVj9-6eGghaGRq9VN5-x0MIdgo4-MN7-9khnDyDRfNTWr0Svj4lB2cT6TB51oxbvygdsBD7KeFIK5ilUwMDZ04RAll9TmNfTo7OuNSqnSaSOBA0be-7oMetD6ckzazAHIrimluAUn/s1600/tnc_firetruck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicX2pFVj9-6eGghaGRq9VN5-x0MIdgo4-MN7-9khnDyDRfNTWr0Svj4lB2cT6TB51oxbvygdsBD7KeFIK5ilUwMDZ04RAll9TmNfTo7OuNSqnSaSOBA0be-7oMetD6ckzazAHIrimluAUn/s320/tnc_firetruck.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
After a long day of shopping with mom I would play with my toys . I had a
red fire engine with pedals and light. The car was made out of metal. I used to crash into
the refrigerator so much that it had a dent. My mom was the weekly cook. My dad
did all the festival foods. Mom would be to sing in the kitchen while she
cooked. As soon as the peppers, onions, cilantro, and garlicky mixture called <i>Sofrito</i>
was starting to sauté, my mouth would water. It always took more time than I
wanted to have dinner ready. My mother would sing the Spanish songs on one of
the few Spanish radio stations in the city. My fathers cousin was a
pioneering Disc Jockey in the city at the time. Singing and Sofrito was a great
combination. We would have dinner and them mom would put leftovers in a <i>Fiambrera</i>,(stack-able
metal lunch tins, probably of Asian origin) that many Puerto Rican Workers used
to have when working the sugar cane fields in Puerto Rico. My father
could take the fianbrera to work the next day.<br />
<br />
I used to wonder what my dad's coworkers would think when they pulled out
their ham sandwiches and my father pulled out rice and chickpeas with salted
cod fish out of the containers. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZdy8cq_y2ZJcmXFzyKcC_3kr9KfyIYzRKDZbkYnNAkXa7fnc0tnSpo4PKIw5ksQADhxtcvUR6r_bVlaJTAZFCGZtznF75AmSH1mAZxxMLdK8HjcH89b6YkTDpB7sGX-2uqQmErEzOPqg/s1600/Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZdy8cq_y2ZJcmXFzyKcC_3kr9KfyIYzRKDZbkYnNAkXa7fnc0tnSpo4PKIw5ksQADhxtcvUR6r_bVlaJTAZFCGZtznF75AmSH1mAZxxMLdK8HjcH89b6YkTDpB7sGX-2uqQmErEzOPqg/s320/Dad.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad circa 1973</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My father was old fashioned; he believed his primary responsibility was
making ends meet. He rarely missed work. He was blue collar all the way.
He would leave early in the morning in blue work uniform. He shaved and would
put on Brute or High Karate aftershave, put on his eye glasses, always, a
hat, his <i>Salem's</i>(cigarettes),and go off to work. Working on cars all day he would come home still
smelling like a garage. His hands were rough from work and he had perpetual
black fingernails from the dirt and oil that he tried to no avail to keep
clean. He had changed before coming home in his mechanic blue uniform with the
oval name label of Charles or Chas across his right side where a shirt
pocket would be and navy blue work pants in what looked like a dry cleaning bag and
hanger from the cleaning service. A clean uniform.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4e9dO-DiwPz-hzgVj-qq5QeuOawB6EDa5ZkKYH_GmjGLlg9P5O8_1rrI0dH6fCodRAG7Nc5mRAzn0dROeLVDpwbgZF13l8sW7WH2_qU8US9U5JN2eQYYL2JtDLMCjhcLMlH0tMNSpNR4a/s1600/mr-spock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4e9dO-DiwPz-hzgVj-qq5QeuOawB6EDa5ZkKYH_GmjGLlg9P5O8_1rrI0dH6fCodRAG7Nc5mRAzn0dROeLVDpwbgZF13l8sW7WH2_qU8US9U5JN2eQYYL2JtDLMCjhcLMlH0tMNSpNR4a/s200/mr-spock.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Copy: Mr Spock </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He spent evenings repairing TVs that others discarded. So I had a TV since I
was 3 years old. I remember watching Mr. Spock with those Vulcan ears on my black and white 13 inch salvaged TV. I have been a <i>Star Trek</i> fan ever since. He was
quite good at fixing things, after all he was a mechanic. He was always
willing to help neighbors that needed something fixed. He never mentioned it,
but I get the sense that he felt people would take advantage of his generosity.
He tried to go back to school later for electronics, but he wasn't able to
finish. My father also played AAA baseball in Puerto Rico. He was a self-admitted
good pitcher until the threw his arm out. He had a knuckle ball. To this day he is a still a hardcore Phillies fan. <br />
<br />
My father was a smart man with a third grade education. He taught
himself to read the newspapers in both English and Spanish and was always aware
of current events. He is still is a daily newspaper reader. One Sunday,
while I was asking for the comic section of the Sunday edition of the Philadelphia
Bulletin. I asked in the spring of 68 while looking at an editorial
cartoon " Why is the Statue of Liberty crying?”, he simply said that
the statue was crying for DR. Martin Luther King Jr. who had just died.<br />
<br />
I used to think that if he just didn't drink he would have done better for
us. I now look at my own imperfections and realize that he did so much better
that I did with my own children.<br />
<br />
I wanted to add that Dad hasn't had a drop in 25 years. Cold turkey both Bacardi and beer, and his Salem's cigarettes. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-7911468254460864932012-09-17T22:29:00.000-04:002012-10-08T18:59:36.083-04:00Superman, Accidents and Black CoffeeI don't remember everything about my childhood. I do however remember waiting for Saturday morning cartoons. I had a wild imagination. I would like to pretend to be characters on TV. Sometimes, I'd be the Lone Ranger, other times a superhero. My favorite was always Superman. My mother though that I was going to jump out of the third story window so she was leary when I would wrap a towel around my neck and start running with my hands outstretched .<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
There was another time that I took and popped out the lenses from a pair of my father's glasses. I was Clark Kent. My mother would often play along and ask "Clark, What do you want for breakfast, <i>Cheerios</i>?" For those that don't know, all Puerto Rican mothers call any brand of cereal "<i>Cheerios</i>". Its like everyone calling a bandage, a "<i>Band-aid</i>". I responded once that I want pancakes and black coffee . She would ask "Why black coffee?", and I would say, "Because that's the way Clark likes it!". We didn't have Teflon in those days so if you had a stainless steel pan that wasn't conditioned, sometimes the pancakes would stick . My mother would always use butter or margarine from one of those tubs that you can later use as a cup. The pancakes wouldn't stick with all that butter but they would always have the brown edges . I don't believe she ever told my father what happened to his eye glasses. <br />
<br />
When I was about four for some reason my mother left my older sister by eight years babysit me while she went out. My mother was a smart lady, but I can't figure out why she would leave me with a 12 year old. If my sister wasn't listening to her Beatles records she would torment me like older sisters were supposed to. I would in turn tattle tale every chance I got. I guess we are even. Except the time she dressed me up like David Casidy from the <i>Partridge Family.</i> <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> File Copy </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have three older sisters but was raised with one. The two older two sisters were married and gone before I was born. My mom left one morning to visit my father in the hospital. He was recovering from tuberculosis and my mother was taking him his cigarettes. It was the 60s, you could smoke in hospitals. Again, she was a smart lady, but she reasoned that if most of the doctors smoked, it can't be too bad. My sister was playing her records on one of those portable record players where the LPs (Long playing records for you young folks ) would edge beyond the player. She was supposed to be washing clothes.<br />
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We lived humbly in a third floor apartment in Fairmount. We had one of those washing machines that didn't have a spin cycle. The water would simply drain and you had to wring out your clothes through the wringer that was a set of rolling pins that press the clothes like a pasta machine flattens dough. Of course I was curious.<br />
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I wanted to wring out my socks. I was all alone, just me and my sock. I lifted my arm and while on my tiptoes and proceeded to wring them out. Everything went well, except for the part when I was supposed to let go. The rolling pins pulled me up off my feet. I thought i was going to be flattened like <i>Wile E. Coyote</i><b>, </b>under an anvil. I got stuck and I was suspended in mid air. I must have screamed.<br />
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All I remember was my mother appeared and was screaming but instead of taking me off of the machine she proceeded to beat up my sister for leaving me unattended. One hand flailing at my sister and the other reaching for the emergency release lever on the machine. My father's boss at the time came to take me to the hospital and I came out with just some bruised ligaments and slightly still malformed left forearm. It reminds me of Popeye arms. <br />
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I remember one summer I woke up before everyone else to watch the Lone Ranger, Road Runner, Johnny Quest and the Superfriends in only underwear. I had always wished that <i>underoos</i> were invented when I was younger as I would have surely wore them. My sister told me the night before not to touch her <i>Applejack's</i>. Of course I had run out of my <i>Fruit Loops</i>, so naturally reached for her <i>Applejacks</i>. Who would know? I poured the <i>"cheerios</i>" and then the milk. There must have been something slippery on the floor, the next thing I knew I was doing a <i>Charlie Brown</i> flip and my sister was <i>Lucy.</i><br />
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I must have been suspended in mid air with all limbs off the floor to what seemed like an eternity. I fell flat on my back and got the wind knocked out of me. The <i>Applejacks</i> and milk went into the air as well and landed on my almost naked body. I ran to my mom's room with <i>Applejacks </i>sticking to my chest. I couldn't speak . I remember trying to tell my mom what happened, but could only gasp for air. My mother figured that my sister had something to do with it, so she goes to her room and beats her. I told you she was a smart Lady. Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com1Philadelphia, PA, USA39.952335 -75.16378939.757580499999996 -75.479645999999988 40.1470895 -74.847932tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-56379060427857055632012-09-15T20:43:00.001-04:002019-03-14T12:38:19.847-04:00The Philadelphia Italian Market and Live Chickens Some of my earliest memories are from my parents taking me and my sister to the 9th street Italian Market. There were and still are outdoor and walk-in shops in the South Philly Market. Although there are Italian shops, there are now Asian, Mexican and African shops. Historically South Philly has been a attractive area for newly arrived immigrants. I knew there were also ethnic and racial tensions but since this is about my childhood, I never experienced them. <br />
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In the summers the smells and sounds were both satiable and pungent. I used the slosh around in the the sawdust and hay that the butcher shops had on their floors before I even know what the purpose was. I am still not sure, I think it was to to soak up the blood from the butchered meats. <i>My vegan daughter is wincing by now.</i> We would walk among the fruit,vegetable and fish stands in the Market. <br />
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My father would choose the meats at the butcher shops and then disappear to the local bar for a few drinks. Back in the late 60s and early 70s, before the plastic bag revolution people used to bring their own bags. You had to. You can't carry 30 lbs of meat in a brown paper bag for a long time. There would also be bag sellers outdoors selling heavy duty bags with handles. <br />
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Walking past the outdoor stands among the bustle of people buying vegetables, fish and fruit. There was this old fruit and vegetable seller that would bark "How many?", in a raspy old cigar voice that sounded more like he was saying "hominy". It took almost all of my childhood to figure out what he was saying. <br />
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In the winter it seemed just as busy. You can always near one of the fires from open drums with pieces of pallets that were lit. To me it was like a campfire. Workers and customers would warm their hands by the fire and the smoke would rise off into the sky. The City tried to get them to stop for polluting the air, but the businesses fought it saying that it took away from the open markets atmosphere and tradition and asked for a special exemption. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">File Photo: Italian Market 1950s</td></tr>
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Later after my dad joined us he would sometimes take me down to the live poultry place. They had live chickens, pigeons and sometimes rabbits . My father would pick a chicken and the creature's fate would then be sealed. The Poultry man with his white butcher coat and black rubber boots would grab the doomed, squawking flapping chicken out of the coop and take it to the back where I would hear the squawking stop instantly. I was curious as to what was happening with the chicken so my father told me that they place the chicken headfirst in to a funnel and chop off its head. <i>My vegan daughter is probably shrieking at this point.</i> Then they dip it in hot water to loosen the feathers and place it on a rolling drum that resembled a music box cylinder that would pluck the feathers . The butcher would then clean out the intestines and give you your chicken in plastic. <br />
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The chicken was still warm when my father would hand me the bag. Children today don't know that the chicken they eat was alive at one point. Because of my visits to the poultry place I knew that, even when my mother would take me grocery shopping and ask me to grab one of the cold chickens from the refrigerated poultry section of the A&P or Pennfruit supermarkets. The Live Chicken place was usually the last stop because my father wanted to get home as quickly to cook the chicken. <br />
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Since the chicken was fresh . He wanted to make sure that we cooked it right away. He would make the best <i>Arroz con Pollo</i> <i>( Puerto Rican Rice and Chicken</i>). He would use the the back, wings and chicken feet to make the best broth that I have ever tasted. You can make both rice and broth with supermarket chicken but it wouldn't be the same.<br />
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http://philadelphiaencyclopedia.org/archive/italian-market<br />
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Our absolute last stop would be George's Sanwich shop , recently featured on Andrew Zimmerman's Bizarre foods for their tripe sandwiches . There was never air conditioning in the summer and very little heat n the winter from all the patrons opening the door. There never seemed to be enough stools to sit together. There would always be some stranger in between. Sometimes customers would move to let us sit together. Other times I would be sitting alone while my parents and sister stood. It was great to be the baby of the family. We would all get the same thing, their Italian roast pork sandwich on a crusty Italian roll that soaks up all the juices. They still serve it on the counter and the only barrier keeping the juices in place would be the sheet of wax paper between your sandwich.<br />
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Georges Sandwich shop never moved and is still there. Very few things have changed. The old <i>Coca-Cola</i> ice cooler with the bottle opener is gone along with the glass coke bottles that I miss. But the sandwiches and the family are still there. It is still a must, when I visit the Maket. <br />
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The Best times were when my uncles and Grandmother came to visit from New York. My Grandmother bring us pastries from her favorite bakery and gifts for me and my sister. Always pajamas for me. She was obsessed with pajamas. Yea, they would always have footies. I would barely understand her since my Spanish was limited. I would try to look surprised with the pajamas even though what I really wanted was some kind of toy. She would make the trip to Philly to visit us and to to buy meats at the market to take back home. My father and his brothers would cook and play musical instruments. Sometimes there weren't enough instruments, so we would make some out of kitchen supplies. A standing grater became a Guiro ( the puerto rican scraping instrument usually made from a dried gourd). Pots would be drums, wooden spoons sticks and an old coffee can with dried beans became a maraca. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jack Delano Photo(not my family, maracas boy would have been me)</td></tr>
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The house would be full of cigarette smoke, beer and food fortunately for the cigarette smoke I was close to the ground. They would sing and joke and eat in Spanish. The ash trays would fill up until they faded one by one to sleep. I only assumed this because I would wake up in my new pajamas adjusting the footies that would slide from my heal and see fewer uncles around the living room on the plastic couches. <br />
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Today there are fewer uncles and my grandmother is long gone. When I visit the remaining uncles and my parents we still bring up the old times. <br />
<br />Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6612437662178741876.post-2958888271663844332012-09-10T22:33:00.000-04:002012-09-26T07:58:19.118-04:00Food, Mr Bill and the Philly of my youth I have lived in Philly all of my life. I have also traveled to some great places. I wanted to create a blog so that I could share my experiences growing up here, traveling and eating.<br />
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I come from a time and neighborhood that families were a community and also cooked food from scratch. I have vivid and great memories growing up there <br />
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I am Puerto Rican, but grew up humbly in a North Philly neighborhood with no other Hispanics. The time was the late 60s and early 70s. The children used to play outside, play marbles and stick ball ( I was never any good at either). My friends were Irish -Turkish and African American. When we were thirsty we would go to my surrogate grandfather, Mr Bill who sold sodas to the kids and corn liquor to the adults, so my father knew him well.<br />
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Mr Bill used to take me to the North Philly and Germantown rib-shacks where I would eat a wood-smoked barbequed rib sandwiches on white bread (Who knew about bad carbs back then?). He would also take me fishing in the Jerseys waters on the summer weekends. I would often hang out at his house during the hot summers of my childhood just listening to this weather-faced, white haired, African American man who reminded me of Red Fox as Fred Sanford then, but now I would compare him to the older man in Henry Ossawa Tanner's painting of the "banjo lesson", the man that i considered grandfather deserved more dignity in the remembering. He would sit down waiting for customers in his work pants and suspenders and old winged tipped leather sole shoes and tell stories on the summer porch while he sold sodas and prepped his tackle box. Other times I would play with friends on the block. <br />
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We used to be on the block, so much that the grow-ups used to complain that why don't we use the park that was just across the street. We never had a real answer and most if the time we just stayed on the block. My mom was a good cook. She cooked the typical puerto rican dinners: rice and beans, rice and corned beef, Chuletas ( pork chops), stewed beef, cubed steak and onions. My dad however was the special dinner cook .<br />
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My dad was worked hard during the week at a local car repair shop as a body and fender man and a big drinker on the weekends . He was old school Puerto Rican . He worked hard, drank hard. He would always cook the holiday food. He made the Thanksgiving turkey, the arroz con gandules( rice and pigeon peas) the Roast pork and the Pasteles (the Puerto rican version of a tamale, made with green banana other root vegetable and stuffed with picadillo(seasoned minced pork) wrapped in banana leaves and boiled every Christmas. <br />
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I enjoyed all of this wonderful food still liked to go over my neighbors houses to eat dinner. I would have pot roast at my childhood friend Mary Ann's house. I would have Soul food, chicken, collards and rice and gravy at Donald's moms house . She had a deep southern drawl that was hard to understand but I always could make it out when she said, " Ricky! <i>You won sompon eat?" </i>My fiend Donovan's grandmother gave me her recipe for sour milk biscuits, yeah I used lard.<br />
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I later worked in restaurants and still love to cook. I use cooking for entertaining and sharing with loved ones. I learned cooking techniques from celebrated chefs and friends grandmothers.<br />
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<i>Gems can come from anywhere, but only if you are looking. </i> <br />
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This is a good starting point on my blog. More to come. <br />
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<br />Ricky Martinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02817635047876400088noreply@blogger.com2