ingredients. Those of us lucky enough to get a piece of cinnamon or a clove in our portion of
arroz con dulce
prolong the pleasure of Christmas by sucking on the spice.
Combine ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and water in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower heat and simmer for 30 minutes. Remove chunks of ginger, cinnamon and cloves. Soak rice in water to cover for 30 minutes. Drain and add to the spice infusion. Simmer, covered, for 10 minutes. Add coconut milk and sugar. Simmer, covered, for 10 more minutes, stirring frequently. Add raisins and cook 5 minutes more, continuing to stir. Stir in coconut flakes and cook 5 minutes more.
Spread mixture evenly in a rectangular (9 Ã 13-inch) glass mold. Allow to cool. Sprinkle powdered cinnamon to taste. Refrigerate. Serve cold.
Judy Vásquez
We discovered this poem by Judy Vásquez in a Christmas issue of the newsletter
El Boricua.
The poem commemorates the passing on of the tradition of Christmas
pasteles;
the title refers
to
jÃbaros
,
the rural dwellers who have become a symbol
of Puerto Rican culture. Ms. Vásquez is a poet and writer and the founder/director
of Kikiriki, a Puerto Rican folk-dance group. Her autobiographical poem reminds us
to be thankful for little miracles, like snow in El Pasoâthe city where she now lives.
JÃBARISMOS
Gioconda Belli
Gioconda Belli is a Nicaraguan writer living in the United States. She is the author
of three novels and five books of poetry. Her work has been translated into eleven
languages. Two of her works,
the novel
The Inhabited Woman
(Warner Books),
and
From Eveâs Rib
(Curbstone Press), a collection of poetry, are available in
English. She is currently at work on a memoir to be published by Alfred A. Knopf.
A CHRISTMAS LIKE NO OTHER
IT HAD BEEN a strange day. Christmas shopping in the heat. God, it was hot. The store was crowded. People yelling and screaming, bumping into each other. There were only a few good stores in Managua, so I didnât have much choice but to stay where I was until I had selected all the toys for my four-year-old daughter. Christmas shopping is always bad, especially for a person who leaves everything for the last minute, but that day was even worse. Maybe I was getting sick. I felt feverish.
At the cash register, Don Jorge must have sensed my claustrophobia. âLeave the presents with me,â he said. âIâll have them wrapped for you. You wonât have to wait in line.â I didnât think twice. I accepted his offer. He owned the store. Heâd known me since I was a child. Impeccably dressed in beige linen, he extended his hand to take my bag. It was a Christmas miracle. One of the Three Wise Men had come to my rescue disguised as Don Jorge.
As I stepped out of the store, the sun was setting. In Nicaragua, the sun-sets are always spectacular. It must be a thing of the tropics: thick clouds sprouting in the skies like gigantic pink spirals of cotton candy. The magentas. I walked to my car wiping the sweat from my forehead. Such heat in December was not normal. At the end of the rainy season, the weather is usually moderate. Strong trade winds cool the air. But on that December 23, the air was still. Too still.
I walked down the shop-lined street. Every store window was sprinkled with artificial snow. Winter scenes were everywhere: reindeer, miniature snow-covered villages, Santa Claus sliding down a cardboard chimneyâ Christmas symbols of another culture and a different climate. But it didnât matter. Even in the tropics, snow was a requisite for a dignified Christmas. Even if it had to be make-believe snow.
At home, I threw myself on the bed. I didnât even feel like playing with my daughter. It was too hot. I turned the air-conditioner on full blast. Maryam climbed on top of me, trying to catch my attention. My head ached. My body ached. I was restless. It didnât feel like Christmas. It felt as if it were going to rain, the way it
arroz con dulce
prolong the pleasure of Christmas by sucking on the spice.
Combine ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and water in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower heat and simmer for 30 minutes. Remove chunks of ginger, cinnamon and cloves. Soak rice in water to cover for 30 minutes. Drain and add to the spice infusion. Simmer, covered, for 10 minutes. Add coconut milk and sugar. Simmer, covered, for 10 more minutes, stirring frequently. Add raisins and cook 5 minutes more, continuing to stir. Stir in coconut flakes and cook 5 minutes more.
Spread mixture evenly in a rectangular (9 Ã 13-inch) glass mold. Allow to cool. Sprinkle powdered cinnamon to taste. Refrigerate. Serve cold.
Judy Vásquez
We discovered this poem by Judy Vásquez in a Christmas issue of the newsletter
El Boricua.
The poem commemorates the passing on of the tradition of Christmas
pasteles;
the title refers
to
jÃbaros
,
the rural dwellers who have become a symbol
of Puerto Rican culture. Ms. Vásquez is a poet and writer and the founder/director
of Kikiriki, a Puerto Rican folk-dance group. Her autobiographical poem reminds us
to be thankful for little miracles, like snow in El Pasoâthe city where she now lives.
JÃBARISMOS
Gioconda Belli
Gioconda Belli is a Nicaraguan writer living in the United States. She is the author
of three novels and five books of poetry. Her work has been translated into eleven
languages. Two of her works,
the novel
The Inhabited Woman
(Warner Books),
and
From Eveâs Rib
(Curbstone Press), a collection of poetry, are available in
English. She is currently at work on a memoir to be published by Alfred A. Knopf.
A CHRISTMAS LIKE NO OTHER
IT HAD BEEN a strange day. Christmas shopping in the heat. God, it was hot. The store was crowded. People yelling and screaming, bumping into each other. There were only a few good stores in Managua, so I didnât have much choice but to stay where I was until I had selected all the toys for my four-year-old daughter. Christmas shopping is always bad, especially for a person who leaves everything for the last minute, but that day was even worse. Maybe I was getting sick. I felt feverish.
At the cash register, Don Jorge must have sensed my claustrophobia. âLeave the presents with me,â he said. âIâll have them wrapped for you. You wonât have to wait in line.â I didnât think twice. I accepted his offer. He owned the store. Heâd known me since I was a child. Impeccably dressed in beige linen, he extended his hand to take my bag. It was a Christmas miracle. One of the Three Wise Men had come to my rescue disguised as Don Jorge.
As I stepped out of the store, the sun was setting. In Nicaragua, the sun-sets are always spectacular. It must be a thing of the tropics: thick clouds sprouting in the skies like gigantic pink spirals of cotton candy. The magentas. I walked to my car wiping the sweat from my forehead. Such heat in December was not normal. At the end of the rainy season, the weather is usually moderate. Strong trade winds cool the air. But on that December 23, the air was still. Too still.
I walked down the shop-lined street. Every store window was sprinkled with artificial snow. Winter scenes were everywhere: reindeer, miniature snow-covered villages, Santa Claus sliding down a cardboard chimneyâ Christmas symbols of another culture and a different climate. But it didnât matter. Even in the tropics, snow was a requisite for a dignified Christmas. Even if it had to be make-believe snow.
At home, I threw myself on the bed. I didnât even feel like playing with my daughter. It was too hot. I turned the air-conditioner on full blast. Maryam climbed on top of me, trying to catch my attention. My head ached. My body ached. I was restless. It didnât feel like Christmas. It felt as if it were going to rain, the way it
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