I was reminded of this when I recently heard, for the first time, a story of an "aha" moment in my Grandma Rosa's life, a moment related to her "fame" in the annals of her cooking history, too.
In the late fifties, it wouldn't have been called such a thing, but oh YES, an aha moment it was.
It started with my grandma's widowhood. A young mother of four children, she lost our grandpa to an automobile accident when he was just thirty years old. Grandma was just thirty, too. Left to raise her little ones alone, Grandma's horizon loomed daunting. She was a Spanish-speaking immigrant in California, a product of her upbringing, raised to believe in marriage, home and family, and the husband who would provide it all.
She depended on the man in her life for livelihood, and her job was to keep the home fires burning.
In the maelstrom of grieving and shock, Grandma couldn't immediately imagine what to do, where to turn.
Another man in her life stepped up to the plate. A relative with his own family took her, my dad and his three sisters into a tiny, earth-floored shelter in his own back yard. He helped them with food and the basics as he he could, and arranged for the little family to go north each summer for grueling months of agricultural picking.
My dad was five years old when my grandpa passed, with a toddler sister and two above him by a few slight years. In 2015, I have a five-year-old granddaughter we shelter from an hour in the sunlight, with sunscreen slathering, a water bottle, and little to no exertion. Back in the day pampering like this was unheard of, but knowing that still hardly tempers the reality my grandma and her little family knew.
In fact, after a few seasons of this, Grandma suffered an excruciating injury. She didn't go back, and neither did she allow her children to. Instead the family pulled together and made their way into the ensuing years, all the way to adulthood. My dad eventually joined the Marines, and my aunts, one by one, married.
Their coming of age proved a mixed-bag of emotions for Grandma. Yes, they were grown and a worry lifted. But together they were a team, forever her help and more so as the years went by. Now that they would have their own families to put first, the day came she asked aloud, "What am I going to do now? I have to do think of something I can do for myself. I have to come up with a plan."
In that day and place, "Cordelia" Knott of the now-famed Knott's Berry Farm was selling chicken dinners to the locals, at amazing pace. Grandma took note of this, and the light bulb in her head sparked her "aha" moment. She said aloud: "If Mrs. Knott can sell chicken dinners, I can sell tacos!!"
An adventurous and intimidating thought, all at once.
Grandma told herself, "I think I can do it." And then, "Yes, I will try."
Grandma by then was a property owner, and so she went to the bank to borrow money. She moved into a house behind the house she raised her children in, and the work began to transform the family home into a restaurant.
Early on, Grandma was overwhelmed with the commitment. Her girls pitched in, but babies were being born, attentions were being spread thin and exhaustion setting in. For a time, "cooking" literally got shoved to the back burner, while Grandma pondered that maybe her plan wouldn't work, after all.
Grandma soon found she had little room for pondering. Bureaucracy reared its imposing head, when the city notified her that her building, now commercial, would have to have business conducted within its walls, or its walls would have to be torn down.
In a scramble, Grandma pulled it all together. Her sons-in-laws kept their day jobs, but agreed to devote after-hours to promoting and building up "El Rosal", my grandma's namesake. All three of her daughters, Bea, Nina, and Cecilia, contributed the very best of their work ethic and enthusiasm toward the venture. They put together a substantive menu, chockfull of favorite family recipes for traditional Mexican dishes, as well as many American standards.
One false start almost led to two, until a popular, long-established local diner decided to shut its doors. Then, that eatery's biggest customer base, the "Auto-netics" factory, was suddenly impelled to give El Rosal a try. Very soon, addicts akin to modern-day "foodies" teemed on the doorsteps of my grandma's restaurant, in numbers too big to ignore. On the weeknights and days, couples and families filled the place, and every weekday (except closed Mondays) a combination of all spilled out onto the generous patio.
I came of age at "El Rosal," working there from the time I was twelve years old (my Social Security application just affirmed this!), ceasing about the time I got married. Working with my cousins, aunts, uncles, and siblings wasn't just a good WORK experience, it was the best, happiest mesh of many diverse memories.
Just before I got that Social Security card, I was an eleven year old in my own family's home. My "aha" moment, like Grandma Rosa's, centered on TACOS, and it too, led me to believe I could and should open up a restaurant...but way later.
It all started with the "Jamaica" (pronounced "Ha-my-uh-ka"), a churchyard festival, oriented to the Mexican culture, in a Santa Ana neighborhood. My dad LOVED to go there, for the tacos. He loved to order a waxy cardboard "boat" of them, sit at a picnic table and savor every juicy, drippy, spicy bite. He always reserved a corner of a tortilla to wipe up at the end the juices and shreds of lettuce or melty cheese that got away.
Oh, how he loved those tacos. I did too, and we didn't have them often enough; the festival was a seasonal thing. My mom made good tacos, but for some reason they paled next to the vibrancy of the "Jamaica" ones, even though no one I knew (then or now) could surpass her in any other delicious thing she ever brought to the table.
One evening I asked her if I could try to make supper. She paused only as if to SEEM like she was pausing, and then an amused, "Yeah, well, I guess..."
Somewhat nonchalantly, but also on-the-ball, as if the offer might quick get away.
I was always observant of my mom's cooking. Eleven was too old to "Captain Crunch" or "Franco-American" anything, and so serious tacos it would be. Using what we had on hand, I kicked it up a notch with the juices and the spice, mostly. I pulled my tastes buds back to their immersion in the tacos at the Jamaica, and I put in every single thing and more I thought those tacos had.
When my Dad tasted his first taco that evening, his eyes popped wide and beamed big. Not one to gush, he gushed. I was afraid my mom would slap him (or me)up one side the head, for his near-swooning, "Luisa...these tacos taste JUST like the ones at the JAMAICA!!"
Not a lot of reaction from Mom, but at least we had our heads left. Despite her toned-down response, the moment was like a passing of the "taco torch", to me. I made them many more times in the future, and other meals, too. Mom caught a break now and then; what wasn't there to like about that?
How Dad reacted to those tacos said a lot to me. Tasty food doesn't just subdue hunger for the body, it enlivens the spirit. It is not just about fuel, but about fueling anticipation, and joy. A good meal doesn't just vanish off the plate, it stays in the mind and spurs the senses into wanting to revisit, time and again. Even while resisting excess all the way!
Decades later my taco-inspired "aha" moment played on me much as Grandma Rosa's did for her. In my time, I thought: "If Grandma Rosa could sell tacos, I can sell....chicken salad."
Chicken salad was a specialty of my mom's, very simple, very delicious. I wasn't in California anymore, I was in the Midwest, with a more "bread basket" audience, and so really yummy chicken salad on bread, and later on in a "fold", otherwise known as a thick homemade tortilla, it was.
But it didn't start out chicken salad. It started out everything-typical-Midwestern fare, with a little "Mexican" thrown in. It started out, as it did for my Grandma, overwhelming from the git-go. In a very short time I was retreating, wanting to dig a hole and throw myself right in.
I did pull back, and let someone else take it over. That didn't last either, and just when I was lolly-gagging, taking my time to think things through, bureaucracy reared its imposing head. "Insurance" told me I had to get in there and do something, or "Insurance" would UN-insure me.
Oops. New plan. New enthusiasm. New resolve. I served the chicken salad, and the chicken-salad-thing worked out.
Very recently, my aunts Bea and Nina, now in their eighties and nineties, were interviewed by the Placentia, California library. A PBS segment on the history of the town is in the works, with my Grandma Rosa and "El Rosal" a part of it.
Oh, how I longed to be there. For days, I reflected to my husband my happy thoughts of Grandma, the restaurant, my aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings. Finally he said, for heaven's sake, can't you call your aunts and at least tell them what those times meant to you?
Yes, I think I can do that. Yes, I will try. One night of conversations, one night of reflecting on many years. If it can be said, I wore my heart on my sleeve those phone calls. In the end, my aunts KNEW how much I wanted to be there, and what those years meant to me.
And one new, amazing "aha" moment: I never knew I had relived (a very small part) of my Grandma Rosa's history. I didn't know it at all. I only knew I loved the times I spent with her, aside from the restaurant, at her home, spending the night, going to an ice cream parlor, taking a Sunday drive. I cherished my "alone" time with her, as I know my cousins and siblings did theirs.
I remember so many things about my grandma, but there were things I couldn't know, either. How enlightening to me that we had a little bit of shared history, each in our own time. I am so grateful to the graces above I did not suffer some of her darker experiences, but I love the "unity" of knowing now we were once in a uniquely similar circumstance, and we each came out alright with our resourcefulness.
And somehow I know now: she was the force behind the whisper..."I think I can do it. Yes, I will try."
I was always observant of my mom's cooking. Eleven was too old to "Captain Crunch" or "Franco-American" anything, and so serious tacos it would be. Using what we had on hand, I kicked it up a notch with the juices and the spice, mostly. I pulled my tastes buds back to their immersion in the tacos at the Jamaica, and I put in every single thing and more I thought those tacos had.
When my Dad tasted his first taco that evening, his eyes popped wide and beamed big. Not one to gush, he gushed. I was afraid my mom would slap him (or me)up one side the head, for his near-swooning, "Luisa...these tacos taste JUST like the ones at the JAMAICA!!"
Not a lot of reaction from Mom, but at least we had our heads left. Despite her toned-down response, the moment was like a passing of the "taco torch", to me. I made them many more times in the future, and other meals, too. Mom caught a break now and then; what wasn't there to like about that?
How Dad reacted to those tacos said a lot to me. Tasty food doesn't just subdue hunger for the body, it enlivens the spirit. It is not just about fuel, but about fueling anticipation, and joy. A good meal doesn't just vanish off the plate, it stays in the mind and spurs the senses into wanting to revisit, time and again. Even while resisting excess all the way!
Decades later my taco-inspired "aha" moment played on me much as Grandma Rosa's did for her. In my time, I thought: "If Grandma Rosa could sell tacos, I can sell....chicken salad."
Chicken salad was a specialty of my mom's, very simple, very delicious. I wasn't in California anymore, I was in the Midwest, with a more "bread basket" audience, and so really yummy chicken salad on bread, and later on in a "fold", otherwise known as a thick homemade tortilla, it was.
But it didn't start out chicken salad. It started out everything-typical-Midwestern fare, with a little "Mexican" thrown in. It started out, as it did for my Grandma, overwhelming from the git-go. In a very short time I was retreating, wanting to dig a hole and throw myself right in.
I did pull back, and let someone else take it over. That didn't last either, and just when I was lolly-gagging, taking my time to think things through, bureaucracy reared its imposing head. "Insurance" told me I had to get in there and do something, or "Insurance" would UN-insure me.
Oops. New plan. New enthusiasm. New resolve. I served the chicken salad, and the chicken-salad-thing worked out.
Very recently, my aunts Bea and Nina, now in their eighties and nineties, were interviewed by the Placentia, California library. A PBS segment on the history of the town is in the works, with my Grandma Rosa and "El Rosal" a part of it.
Oh, how I longed to be there. For days, I reflected to my husband my happy thoughts of Grandma, the restaurant, my aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings. Finally he said, for heaven's sake, can't you call your aunts and at least tell them what those times meant to you?
Yes, I think I can do that. Yes, I will try. One night of conversations, one night of reflecting on many years. If it can be said, I wore my heart on my sleeve those phone calls. In the end, my aunts KNEW how much I wanted to be there, and what those years meant to me.
I remember so many things about my grandma, but there were things I couldn't know, either. How enlightening to me that we had a little bit of shared history, each in our own time. I am so grateful to the graces above I did not suffer some of her darker experiences, but I love the "unity" of knowing now we were once in a uniquely similar circumstance, and we each came out alright with our resourcefulness.
And somehow I know now: she was the force behind the whisper..."I think I can do it. Yes, I will try."
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