My Mother's Food

Goya. Growing up, the name was as familiar to me as Kraft or Nestle. My mother and all the women who have trailed before her have all used Goya foods in their Caribbean recipes. It’s the special ingredient that gives my mother’s food its pizzazz, that extra dose of flavor that makes my taste buds crackle with joy. I began eating Hispanic dishes made from Goya long before I could properly chew. “It’s good for her!” my grandmothers would tell my worried mother as they gladly fed me arroz con habichuela y guineo (rice and beans with banana) as an infant. These were the same grandmothers that were raised (and attempted to pass on to me) with a bottle of coffee before bedtime.

As I grew up, my mother and grandmothers taught me to love the many flavors of our food and gave me a beautiful love for our island-inspired dishes. Goya became an indicator as to when my mother was going to start cooking. She would first take out all the Goya products she planned on using from the pantry and line them neatly beside each other next to the stove, getting them ready for their turn up the plank on the wooden cooking spoon and down the boiling water. A feverish delight would overcome me when I’d smell the sweet aroma of coconut rice drifting from our tiny kitchen. “Hay, que rico!” ("Oh, how good!") I’d hear my mother profess as she tasted her concoction. The rice would usually be followed by her staple, chef recipes for Mofongo (a mashed fried plantain dish with seafood, meat, or vegetables poured on top) or Sancocho (a meat and vegetable stew).

From as long as I can remember, cooking has been a source of love and delight in my home. The sweetest thing to come from our kitchen, besides the delicious coconut-banana-papaya-mango confections, was my mother’s rhythmic steps and ecstatic exclamations in the kitchen. In between her steps, I would sneak in, grab an extra plate of flan, my favorite Spanish custard made out of eggs, evaporated and condensed milk, and scurry off to my room.

Like a true cook, my mother has never needed to measure ingredients. She starts preparing her staple dish (beans) by heating Goya olive oil in a pot over medium heat. Goya Ham flavoring, Goya sofrito (a cilantro cooking base), Goya garlic, pepper, Goya tomato sauce, and Goya chicken bouillon are then put into the pot. A whole can of Goya beans (either pinto, red, pink, or black) is added with rice, and then boiling water is poured in. This simmers until the water evaporates. Once it evaporates, the lid is used to cover the pan and put on low heat for 15-20 minutes. Afterward, my mother naturally flips on the TV to El Gordo y La Flaca on Univision while the aroma of beans spreads throughout the house.

Goya has been the default taste that I measure every other food against. It's also been part of every grocery trip memory: “Make sure you go to the Goya section!” my mother would yell over the phone. As I once was fed dishes made with it by my mother and grandmothers, I now see my six-year-old sister savoring them. This is the passing down of a tradition, from one mouth to another. Whenever I taste a spoonful of a dish made with Goya, I no longer feel the cold hardwood floor against my feet, but warm grains of sand between my toes. The foggy air is replaced with a light Tropical breeze blowing through my hair. Goya is no longer simply reminiscent of our island food, it's now the warmth of my mother's love.