De caramelo.

Jerry: So, where do you want to eat tonight?
Patty: How about La Caridad again?
Jerry: Again?! How much flan can a person eat?!
Seinfeld: “The Serenity Now”

I was stumped for a clever introduction for this entry on flan and after an absurdly long 15 minutes of playing peek-a-boo with the cursor I walked out to the living room, turned on the TV, and caught a Seinfeld episode right as the above exchange was happening. Yes, I have strange psychic/telepathic abilities. Paranormal activity aside, the question of how much flan a person—or a whole people—can eat is completely valid. I’ve often wondered myself because among the Spanish-speaking world, there seems to be an insatiable hunger for it.

If Latin America were to become a single Union, à la Europe, the national dessert would most likely be flan. Lately I’ve taken to polling Spanish and Latin American friends—and strangers—about what they most commonly eat for dessert and flan is the answer 90% of the time. You’ll see flan stamped on every Latin American restaurant menu (including La Caridad; 2199 Broadway at 78th Street, NYC, though you’ll find it listed as “pudín de leche”), in many home fridges, and even in the baking aisle in powdered form, like American Jell-O pudding.

I resisted flan for a long time. “How stereotypical!” I thought. After the eye roll followed performance anxiety. There’s an overwhelming amount of bad flan made, served, and somehow eaten every day. Bad flan, riddled with deep dimples, like a bad case of cellulite. Bad flan, undercooked and slippery, like a strange serpentine sea creature swimming down your throat.

Good flan should have slight jiggle, but more along the lines of a trainer-tightened posterior than a waterbed. Good flan is minimalist and sleek, like an expensive silk blouse.

Flan, or more precisely egg-based custard, has been in existence since Roman times, where it was mostly presented as a savory dish. Variations and permutations found their way around the world, but arguably, today when we hear the word flan we think mostly of the Spanish-speaking cream-colored custard with a pool of deep amber, burnt sugar caramel.

The recipe that follows is my mother’s go-to; it can be made in un dos por tres (a snap) and has always turned out silky and perfectly set.  There are thick flans, but this one is on the slimmer side—the caramel-to-custard ratio is just right. Make it and you’ll see what all the fuss is about.

FLAN DE CARAMELO

Notes:
- For easy measuring and easy clean-up, once you’ve poured the sweetened condensed milk into the blender, use the empty can to measure the milk.
- If you don’t have a roasting pan for the bain-marie or water bath, use a baking dish large enough to accommodate the cake pan.

Equipment: Roasting pan or large baking dish, 9-inch round cake pan, medium heavy-bottomed saucepan, pastry brush, blender (optional)
Active time: 20 minutes
Total time: 4 hours
Serves 6 to 8

1 cup sugar
¼ cup water
1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
14 ounces milk (See Notes), at room temperature
3 large eggs, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
¼ teaspoon salt

Adjust oven rack to middle position and preheat oven to 325°F. Place clean kitchen towel in roasting pan. Set 9-inch round baking pan on top of towel. Set tea kettle or pot of water to boil.

Meanwhile, combine sugar and ¼ cup water in medium heavy-bottomed saucepan. Cook over medium-high heat until the sugar is dissolved. Dampen a clean pastry brush and brush down any sugar crystals from the sides of the pan. Boil, swirling the pan occasionally, until the sugar turns deep amber, 10 to 12 minutes. Immediately pour the caramel into the baking pan and swirl to coat to the bottom. Allow it to set, 5 to 10 minutes.

Place the sweetened condensed milk, milk, eggs, vanilla, and salt in a blender and blend until thoroughly combined, about 1 minute. (Alternatively, you may whisk the ingredients together by hand in a large bowl). Pour the flan mixture over the caramel mixture.

Open the oven door and set the roasting pan and flan in the oven. Carefully pour hot water into the roasting pan—water should reach halfway up the sides of the flan pan. Bake until flan is set, but still a bit wobbly, about 1 hour.

Remove cake pan from roasting pan and cool on rack, about 15 minutes. Chill completely in refrigerator, 2 to 3 hours. Run a knife along the flan edges and invert onto serving plate. Serve.

This recipe originally appeared in Serious Sweets.

It never matters how many years have gone by between visits or how nonchalant I am upon arrival, home gets under my skin, rushes like a wild river through my veins, pounds like violent love against my sternum.

Familiarity of surroundings combined with bleary vision from an early flight, I hand over my passport at customs, rush out to the car, sit in a salon chair while my hair is pulled and sprayed and coiffed for a dinner party. Twelve hours later, I wake from the frenzied coma and finally emerge and inhale. I’m in the back seat of a car, window down. It is summer and there is an oven-hot breeze blowing, scattering superfine reddish dust, shaking the palms and madroños. I smell gasoline, blinding sun, firewood burning, and sadness.

There is never a pause between that first inward breath and the throat-gripping melancholy that it jump-starts because the flashbacks stampede, gallop, thunder in too quickly and suddenly: the visits in the ’80s when supermarkets were barren with rationing, Sunday mass at twilight with bats darting in through wrought iron-barred windows, feeling trapped in this place that’s furious and tempestuous and sweltering and raging, like a difficult woman who secretly likes to be roughed around.

Once the initial flames die down, the embers burn with profound longing for the coarse landscape with its smoking slumbering volcanoes, deep lagoons of unfathomable depths and explosions of pumice stones, wide open sky with thickly clustered white clouds, and starry inky nights. Birds cry out loud, piercing, and longing, while long-limbed monkeys wail and screech in fastidious alarm from the trees. There is the thunderous roar of the surf and cheap speakers blasting out music you can’t avoid swaying to. Soul, skin, and tempers dampen with perspiration.

A visit to my grandparents’ home, and clumsy moths flutter in my abdomen. The big house is disheveled, but the roses still bloom gaudily in the atrium garden. I walk into the room I used to sleep in on weekend visits, still painted a furious pink that fights the black-and-white speckled ceramic tile floors. The closet doors are pure ‘70s: gold-feathered Formica. I remember the window unit AC, chill, damp, and wheezing. But right now there is only stale air and the ghost of an uncle who slowly withered away after a stroke, here, on this very bed. I stand in place and close the door behind me even though I’m close to suffocating. It’s only a few seconds before I retrace my steps, running away before the haunting begins.

Outside, my grandmother talks about family; the births, the celebrations, the many deaths. She’s matter-of-fact but looks broken and her eyes are dim. My grandfather is smaller than he used to be, but he still lights up when he talks about still being able to see well and keep a steady hand with a scalpel in his hand—he’s due at the hospital shortly.

We swing back and forth on rocking chairs, drinking freshly squeezed mandarin juice, but it does little to soothe the translucent veil of warm salty sweat simmering on my skin.

It’s been pointed out to me that I am headstrong, loud, and have a temper that can bubble up as quickly as an Alka-Seltzer tablet plopped in water. It’s also been pointed out that these endearing characteristics are probably innate and completely out of my control because I’m Latin American. I’m not offended. If one day I throw a plate at someone’s head I can blame it on my ethnicity.

I couldn’t help think of the stereotypical fiery Latin temperament when I was making this recipe. Arroz con leche (riz au lait or rice pudding), is such a languid, drowsy, gentle thing, so tender it’s even suitable for those with smooth gums and weak constitutions. And yet, it is among the most well-loved and frequently made desserts in much of Latin America. Maybe we’re all bark and no bite.

The accompanying rice pudding recipe requires some care and attention—it needs to be occasionally stirred over low heat for about an hour. I find watching the pudding steadily thicken is quite soothing, and the reward of a warm bowl of arroz con leche is worth every turn of the spoon.

This arroz con leche is flavored with orange rind, cinnamon, and (optional) dark rum; the scent is deep and sultry. You’ll notice I’ve used dark brown sugar as well as granulated sugar in the recipe: the pudding’s color will be golden rather than white, and the flavor more complex. At home I’d use dulce de rapadura or piloncillo (unrefined whole cane sugar), and do feel free to use either if they’re available to you.

A side note: arroz con leche is part of a children’s song; these are a few lines from one version.

“Arroz con leche me quiro casar / con una señorita de San Nicolás / que sepa coser / que sepa bordar / que sepa abrir la puerta para ir a jugar…. / Con esta sí, con esta no / con esta señorita me caso yo.”

(Rice pudding, I want to marry a young lady from San Nicolás who’ll know how to sew, who’ll know how to embroider, and who’ll know how to open the door to go out and play…With this one: yes, with this one: no, this is the young lady I will marry.)

ARROZ CON LECHE (Nicaraguan Rice Pudding)

Active time: 1 hour
Total time: 1 hour

Notes: Rice pudding is best served warm as soon as it is made.

3 ½ cups water
1 cup medium- or long-grain white rice
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 3-inch pieces orange rind from 1 orange
2 cinnamon sticks
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 ½ cups milk
1 cup sugar
¼ cup packed dark brown sugar
½ cup raisins
¼ cup dark rum (optional)
Ground cinnamon (optional)

Bring water to boil over medium-high heat in medium heavy-bottomed saucepan. Stir in rice, 1 tablespoon butter, orange rind pieces, cinnamon sticks, and salt. Reduce heat to medium and simmer, stirring from time to time, until most of the liquid is absorbed, 10 to 12 minutes.

Stir in milk, sugar, dark brown sugar, raisins, and optional rum. Increase heat to medium-high and bring mixture to boil. Immediately reduce heat o medium-low and simmer, stirring from time to time, until rice is thickened and tender, about 35 to 45 minutes.

Remove from heat. Remove and discard orange rind pieces and cinnamon sticks. Stir in remaining 1 tablespoon butter. Serve warm and dust with cinnamon if desired.

I just realized I was sitting on all of these photos from my trip to Nicaragua in early December. Most are iPhone shots, and admittedly not the best quality, but it was go-go-go while there and these were stolen moments, quickly captured.

In this shot I play the role of tourist, camera in hand immediately making vendors think I can be easily swindled. Too bad I know more Nica slang than they do. Tourist or not, the Mercado Popular in Masaya is full of hand-woven hamacas and other artisan products. Hammocks are what I miss the most from home—there’s no more luxurious feeling than falling asleep in its gentle rock, palm trees murmuring with the warm breeze.

There’s a short alley at the market where shoes are made and repaired. Urban legend has it that these cobblers double as dentists. Make sense…tools are similar, a snort of pega will knock you right out.

This trip was all business—my cousin Lucía is getting married in a few weeks and I’m helping with all things food-related. I’m nosy and intrusive, and of course got involved in floral arrangements and other details. Which brings us to this interesting wreath. As we sit at the flower shop, looking at bridal white blossoms and lush greenery, this monster funeral wreath receives its finishing touches. In the glass case behind, colorful teddy bears that will be perched on a less morbid array.

Weary with travel, we look for a pick-me up before heading to dinner. A frosty glass-bottled Coca-Cola, more carbonated than anything you get in the U.S., loaded with cane sugar. The slogan was “la chispa de la vida” and truly, one sip does add spark to your life.

Oh, and while you sip (bottles must be returned to the vendor so they can be collected and refilled), you can buy ice cream, a pastry, and antacid…and try on some shoes. We Nicas are so very practical.

Home at last. We are guided to the palm roofed rancho by the warm glow of a lamp. And a fully stocked bar tended by a waiter.

The next morning, we regret the last seven drinks of rón con Coca. Luckily, the antidote appears, bubbly and brisk: a michelada with iced beer, lime juice, generous dashes of salsa inglesa (Worcestershire), and hot sauce.

More to come…headed back this weekend!

¡Felices pascuas!

Pío V—allegedly named for 16th century Pope Pius V, though there are written records or even verbal conjectures to explain the odd handle—is a Nicarguan dessert typically served around Christmastime.

The name is quaint and speaks to the Nicaraguan history of Catholicism, but what I love most is that within the name are hidden another three, given that Pío V is made up of marquesote, sopa borracha, and manjar.

My father is a enamored of the Spanish language, and always urged me to read more in our mother tongue, saying that it is much more sabroso (luscious, tasty, savory). He’s entirely correct; be it poetry or song, idle prattle or malicious gossip, Spanish words are not only heard, they caress and prick the skin, melt or sour in the mouth.

Marquesote, cake in plain English, sounds of royal lineage and history, while sopa borracha, a rum-laced simple syrup the cake steeps in, induces a smirk and a laugh, given its literal translation: drunken soup. Manjar, the custard layer that tops the cake, could be just that, however the word also means delicacy and alludes to what the gods are said to have eaten.

Admittedly, when I was younger, Pío V was not on my list of favorite desserts. The soaked cake usually had an overpowering wallop of rum and if served less than chilled, the custard had a really unpleasant way of slithering and glopping down your throat. This version is a touch more tame, but is still quite cheery and festive.

An interesting note on the cake: it is traditionally made with a blend of flour and pinol, toasted white cornmeal used in a multitude of applications, such as coating whole fish prior to deep-frying. In this recipe, I toast fine white cornmeal to mimic the flavor and add a touch of unsweetened cocoa powder to deepen the flavor.

PIO V

Equipment: medium skillet, whisk,  sifter/strainer, mixing bowls, electric mixer, rubber spatula, 13- by 9-inch baking dish, cooling rack, large, heavy-bottomed saucepan, plastic wrap

For the Marquesote Cake
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened
1 cup fine white cornmeal
1 cup all-purpose flour, sifted
4 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
6 large eggs, separated and at room temperature
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup milk
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

For the Sopa Borracha
6 cups water
3 ½ cups sugar
4 cinnamon sticks
1 teaspoon whole cloves
Peel of 1 lemon
3/4 cup gold rum
1/2 cup raisins
12 prunes

For the Manjar
4 cups milk
2 cinnamon sticks
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
4 large egg yolks
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons butter, cut into 4 pieces and chilled
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

For the Cake: Adjust oven rack to middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Grease a 13- by 9-inch baking dish with butter.

In medium skillet over medium-low heat, cook cornmeal, stirring frequently, until light golden and fragrant, about 5 minutes.

Whisk together cornmeal, flour, baking powder, and cocoa powder in medium bowl; set aside.

In large bowl, beat egg whites and salt with whisk attachment on medium-low speed until whites begin to froth, about 1 minute. Increase speed to medium-high and beat whites until soft peaks form, 1 to 2 minutes. Slowly add sugar, then continue beating until stiff, glossy peaks form, 2 to 3 minutes.

Add egg yolks to egg whites and beat just until combined. Decrease speed to low and add flour mixture in three additions, alternating with milk, scraping sides and bottom of bowl as necessary. Add vanilla and beat just until combined.

Scrape batter into prepared baking dish. Bake until tester inserted in center of cake comes out clean, 30 to 35 minutes. Transfer cake to cooling rack and cool in pan completely, 1 to 2 hours.

For the Sopa Borracha: Bring water, sugar, cinnamon sticks, cloves, and lemon peel to boil in large, heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium-high heat. Reduce heat to medium and simmer until reduced to 4 ½ cups, about 30 minutes. Strain and discard solids.

Stir in rum, raisins, and prunes and cool to room temperature, about 30 minutes. Once cooled, strain once again, reserving prunes and raisins.

For the Custard: Bring milk and cinnamon sticks to boil over medium heat in small saucepan or in (glass) liquid measuring cup in microwave. Remove and reserve cinnamon sticks.

In a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan whisk together sugar, cornstarch, egg yolks, and salt. While vigorously whisking, add ¼ cup of hot milk, then, add remaining milk in a slow steady stream, all the while whisking.

Add reserved cinnamon sticks and bring the mixture to boil over medium heat, whisking constantly. Once mixture thickens to the consistency of yogurt, continue to boil for 1 to 2 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in butter and vanilla.

Press a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the custard’s surface and refrigerate until cold, 2 to 3 hours. Otherwise, place the custard bowl over in an ice bath and stir until completely cooled, 10 to 15 minutes.

To Assemble: Poke cake all over with skewer or fork. Pour sopa borracha over cake. Once absorbed, pour custard over cake, smoothing out surface with rubber spatula. Top with raisins and prunes.

Chill cake at least 1 hour prior to serving.

My paternal grandparents have lived in their large Spanish colonial house in Granada’s Calle Atravesada (a Main Street of sorts) for as long as I can remember, and even decades before then.

Now sagging and crumbling with the customary wear and tear of the years and the ravages of difficult times—wars, death, weather—the atrium garden, framed by pillars and punctuated by a gurgling stone fountain, remains very much the same. Large, fat roses, always a bit too colorful with petals unfastened, like the heaving bosoms of ladies of the evening, flock together. Over-eager and too-intensely perfumed they boldly face the assault of the arrogant sun.

The heat in this town is oppressive and thick. Long hours were spent on Sunday visits to the house swinging back and forth on creaky white wicker rocking chairs, the sweat suctioning the backs of our legs to the seat as the speckled hen patterned black-and-white floor fumed ever hotter.

These Sundays inched forward painfully, but lunch at the big round table was a just reward. There were large platters of rib roast, the meat slipping off the bone, crab bisque with whole saucer-sized crabs you got to pick apart on your plate, potato gnocchi drowned in the house’s secret pink sauce and buried in crumbly cheese that had been bought by the slab at the market that morning, refried beans that shimmered in lard and were brought to the table in a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet that had long ago had its handle amputated.

And the preserved fruits. Depending on what was in season there was always a homemade, industrial-sized jar filled with amber fruits floating in slow motion in a thick, golden syrup. Mangos, papayas, a slew of tropical fruits I never learned the English names for, and my favorite: figs.

Years ago there was a fig tree in a corner of the garden. The figs hung low and plump, hiding in the shade of its own parasol leaves. The tree was unceremoniously cut down after the occasional evening bat became legion. Mamamá was always business-like with household pests. On a summer visit I brought a kitten home from the farm only to later learn he’d been dispatched to the market in a burlap sack. Mamamá told me Pascual had gone to Miami, and for a long time I envisioned him living in glorious exile.

Tree or no tree, higos en miel were made whenever they were in season. The “figs in honey” were sticky and sweet, their tiny seeds tickling my mouth; I’ve always thought that sunshine would taste just like one of those translucent orbs. The figs, those delicate purses lined with precious beads, were gently peeled and drowned in simple syrup and a fresh leaf from the tree, then simmered under Mamamá’s strict and perspiring brow.

Last week while I leaned over the pot to check on my figs, my eyes and nose smarted as if I’d taken a gulp of chilled heavily carbonated Coca-Cola; my grandmother’s kitchen, the roses, the bats, the disappeared cat, the damp manure and chicken droppings caked to the soles of my shoes; all rushed back.

HIGOS EN MIEL (Poached Figs)

Active Time: 1 hour, 30 minutes
Total Time: 2 hours, 30 minutes
Equipment: vegetable peeler, large heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven, parchment paper
Note: Figs will keep in an airtight container, refrigerated, for 1 week.

30 small fresh, ripe black figs (about 2 pounds)
2 cups sugar
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
4 cups water

Carefully peel figs and trim and discard stems.

Stir together sugar, dark brown sugar, salt, and water in large heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven over medium-high heat and boil syrup until sugars are dissolved and syrup thickens, 5 to 7 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low and add figs.

Cut a piece of parchment paper in the shape of pot. Cut a nickel-sized vent in the middle. Press parchment directly onto surface of fig-syrup mixture.

Simmer figs until translucent, gently stirring from time to time, about 1 hour.

Cool figs completely, at least 1 hour. Figs may be served at room temperature or chilled.