The Havana Chronicles, La Casa de mi Tia

Crafts from another era

Day 3:

My spouse has been to Cuba several times, years ago, before we met. And so I had the great fortune of having a contact in Havana when I arrived. An older woman, in her 70's now, Marcolfa (yes, that's a foreals name) who runs a Casa Particular - or official Cuban guest house. Initially I had arranged to stay with her but the travel agent convinced me that I would be miserable so far in the outskirts of Havana where Marcolfa runs her house. True, it's a $10 one-way cab ride to anything anyone would want to see in Havana, but measured against the comfort of El Vedado... eeeeehhh. Maybe.

In any case, I agreed to spend some time visiting Marcolfa at her house. When I called her just after my arrival she struck me as instantly familiar over the phone - kinda pushy and curt, but in a loving and earnest way. Familiar. I was looking forward to meeting her and unloading the 20lb bag of stuff I brought for her from Mexico.

The cab driver spent an extra ten minutes driving lost in circles because the travel agent lady was right that Marcolfa lives in the hinterlands. Poor cabbie, I gave him an extra few bucks for the trouble of flagging people down on every other corner to ask about the location of the address. He was even kind enough to wait in the car as I yelled across the locked rod iron gate that separated Marcolfa from the mean streets of residential suburban Havana.

A sweet faced mulatto (it's a current term in Cuba so spare me the lecture) man with a wet paintbrush in his hand poked his head around a column on the front porch, "You're the gringa coming to visit Marcolfa?" That's me! "Marcolfa! Your gringa's here!" Thank you. Out shuffles the old gal, just as I'd pictured her in a housecoat and socks and slippers. She unlocked the gate and pulled me into a bear hug topped with about a million kisses on the face and then grabbed my shoulders and stood back to have a good look at me. "Look at you, beautiful dark skin, you could be Cuban. You could by my child. Where are you from? How's your wife? Come on, bring your stuff in. Tell me everything!"

And so it began. The introduction to my Cuban auntie was an immediate success. It started with me dumping the contents of the 20lb bag onto her bed and watching with total satisfaction as she rifled through every item in awe: Disposable pens! My granddaughter will love these. Cotton socks! How did you know? Ibuprofen - perfect! Ben Gay. What is Ben Gay? Ah- I need this like nothing else! Centrum Silver. What did you do, knock over an old folks home?! I'll take one tonight!

And so on. This must be what (some) parents feel like on Christmas morning. What a delight it was to watch her investigate every item so carefully then beam when she realized what purpose all the trinkets serve. SO fun. Of course, the best part was her discovery of the Oaxacan coffee and chocolate because as wonderful as it is to have your practical items covered, it really comes down to the sweet stuff. She loved it. I loved bringing it. Win-win.

We moved ourselves to the kitchen where there was absolutely no lag in the conversation. She insisted I observed as she prepared my lunch of Cuba's national dish - arroz criollo con pollo/rice & beans with chicken. There was also tomato, cucumber, beet salad. YUM! Brilliant, all of it. I was a day out from my course of antibiotics and ready to move off the baby food. I couldn't have landed at a better place to do just that.

Posted in her kitchen, "Peace for me is not being fucked with." Marcolfa

I spent the entirety of the day at her kitchen table and I don't think there's anything we didn't talk about: the sweet-faced mulatto who does handy work and runs errands, the neighbor she's been feeding who escaped from a mental institution two days ago, her family, my family, politics, religion, the economy, the state of the world, etc. It was like catching up with an old friend as if no time had passed. Honestly, I didn't really want to leave. I felt safe and warm in her house and at her table, and at a time when I'd been missing the comfort of home after being so ill and on my own. She let me linger long enough to eat dinner, meet her cousin, a fine arts furniture craftsman and his young side-kick, a very attractive skinny kid called Bolo. She then pressed me to sit in her room and watch the evening news as we were to be keeping an eye out for a story on her cousin's work at a recent exhibition. Then there was her favorite novela. Don't want to miss that.

When she caught me yawning she called me a cab and made sure I had enough money to get myself back to El Vedado. "Why didn't you stay with me? Come back, bring your wife, you'll stay with me. You have family here now." Ok, Marcolfa. I'm going to write to Obama as soon as I get back to Oaxaca and ask him if he's ever had arroz criollo con pollo. Surely, if he only knew about this dish he'd lift that stupid embargo already. I'm inviting Barack Obama to your house for supper. I wasn't actually joking - I was seriously thinking through the email in my head. She laughed and agreed, if only El Presidente would try the food he would understand. Lots of hugs and kisses and more hugs.

I didn't actually have a chance to write Obama as I got back to Oaxaca late the night before the big announcement made headlines. Perhaps someone else got to him, someone who also loves a home-cooked Cuban meal. How could we have known.

Marcolfa y Yo