Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Cuban Food and Southern Hospitality

Tonight, I'm enjoying a fabulous dinner from the new Cuban restaurant that just opened down the way.  Even though it's in a brand new building and everything inside is brand spanking new, they've managed to make it feel just like one of the side of the street restaurants you'd find in that area of the world.  Having never been to Cuba myself (someday!), I can only compare it to my experiences in San Juan, Puerto Rico.  Minus the patina of the San Juan place, they could've been twins.  Including the young women who ran the places like petite, smiling Napoleons.

Cuban food does for me what no other cuisine can:  it makes me not mind sweating.  I am a lifelong opponent of sweat and all the things it brings with it - soaked clothing, embarassing stainage, an uncomortably soggy feeling, stinging eyes, etc.  But, sitting down to the carmelized ripe plantains, black beans and rice and long-stewed shredded beef in mojo, the sweat seemed...a part of the experience.  I dabbed and drank cool things and added hot sauce, and the sweat still rolled down my forehead and chest as if I had invited all the moisture in the area to join my personal party.

 Two weekends ago, lifelong Georgians, the Indigo Girls, were in concert here, and they compared our summer to their own more Southerly reputation for heat and humidity.  They concluded (as most Illinoisans have already done) that they are much the same.  The difference is, we get to have autumn after this.  As another friend said of California - we're lucky to have all four distinct seasons.  In California, they have two:  Summer and Not Summer.

Speaking of the South, I just finished reading the amazing novel, The Help, by Kathryn Stockett.   Not to sound too gushy, but as I was reading it, I felt the same surges of fear, hope, disappointment, and ultimately, pride for her characters as I did the first time I read To Kill A Mockingbird.  It was, by no means, a short book, yet it was still spare in many ways, letting the characters tell their stories richly, but in their own words.  Not a moment of it felt forced or trite.  It was as if I had sat down to hear a story that my grandmother was telling.

It was her first novel, and I felt like I wanted to crawl into that wonderful/terrifying story just to be around her marvelous characters, good and bad alike.  I love a book that keeps you guessing and questioning all the way through it, predicting one thing and hoping for something else because of your love of the characters.  I don't want to give away a single bit of the plot.  I'm definitely recommending it to all and sundry, but I'm thankful that mine is an electronic copy so I can be sure if I lend it out, it comes back in two weeks.  I have a feeling I'm going to want to visit Stockett's well-developed characters again.

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