First things first: when I refer to Mamaçita, I am speaking about my host mama. I didn't really know what to call this woman who is such an integral yet etheral part of my Strasbourg-ian life. Madame, Mère d'acceuil, host mother, "Mom"—None of these options caught my fancy.
Thus...Mamaçita. A little spicy, a little out of the ordinary, but you know it means Mom.
Mamaçita reminds me of those sourpatch candy commercials. Except with Mamaçita, first there's spunky. She's a feisty mushroom hunter and minority rights activist and, at the same time, someone who will greet you in the morning with a bag of fresh-made beignets in case you get hungry at school.
Over breakfast one morning, Mamaçita and I discuss our mutual liking for potted plants (They really do add a certain something.). That same night, I walk into my room to find...
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| Quelle plante! |
...a gigantic plant, almost a midget tree, sitting happily on my desk. How she even got it up all those stairs, I shall never know. It made me happy. The kind where you just stare and smile and sort of chuckle to yourself.
Mamaçita also happens to be a mind reader.
Right when you're thinking "God damn, I hate space heaters" she hands you a big wooly sweater she found in the back of her closet and thinks you might like. Whenever you're about to get homesick, she makes lentil soup almost identical to your mom's daahl. When FoodPornDaily gives you the most serious of hankerings for a juicy hamburger topped with—your favorite—guacamole, she of course has already prepared a dinner of beef cutlets with fresh grain bread and avocado.
She's the sneakiest and most mysterious type of mind-reading Mamaçita.
As someone who can easily get irritated when around the same person for too long, I stand amazed at Mamaçita's ability to just...be. You don't get angry at Mamaçita. You don't get tired of Mamaçita. You don't tolerate Mamaçita. You love Mamaçita and you're pretty sure Mamaçita loves you.
Mamaçita often repeats one expression : « Chacun a sa propre façon. »—everyone has their own way. Mamaçita does not judge. She sees, she comments, and she accepts. Things that bother me about others do not bother her because she simply accepts difference. She comes into a relationship knowing that you are who you are for completely legitimate reasons and that you are bound to be different from who she is.
Beignets on French mornings
Beignets on French mornings
Yesterday morning, I woke up early to make beignets with Mamaçita, a plan we had made the previous night. As she cooks, she explains the tricks of beignet-making.
- Use the zest of one complete lemon. Not the juice.
- Make sure the dough is always near heat.
- Thinner is better. Trust me.
- Dip your thumbprint into the raw beignet just before laying it in the oil. It makes it fluffy.
- Cover them for one minute after you put them in.
- Make a lot.
We rolled the dough, cut and shaped, fried, and then sprinkled sugar and cinammon, eating as we went, moaning and nodding at the lightness of the dough and slight tang of lemon. My brain started whirring at the potential of these little fried heaven puffs. I told her about how we keep a pot of vanilla sugar at my house in Chicago—fresh vanilla beans left to steep in, and thus infuse, the white sugar.
« On peut utiliser le sucre à la vanille avec les beignets . . . »
« Mais, oui ! Tu voies? Chacun a ses propres secrets et il faut que nous les partagions. »
We agreed to try vanilla sugar and orange zest next time we do beignets.
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| Tarte Flambée. Courtesy isaveurs.com |
Before that, however, we're making tarte flambée... —something different, but oh so familiar.
