My mother insists the Cuban cookbook bible is Nitza Villapol’s

In our house, the most often acompañante is

Straight up

Black beans and rice.

Kirby and El Ebro are sacred names

For the days we don’t feel like cooking,

Just need something quick to heat up.

We ship boxes of beans back from Miami

Or take them in carry-on luggage

(Starting conversations with TSA agents

About solid vs liquid goods)

Or have Abuela send a care package

When reserves start getting low.

There’s something to be said of simplicity.

Mom fusses when I suggest adding mushrooms

Or dashing in a bit of spice,

Says things like “taint” and

“Respect the Cuban in me”.

It’s a taste based in cumino and cooking wine

No need for fortified veggie or a little heat.

There’s a bit of tension

Over how big to leave the garlic--

I follow cooking tendencies of a neurotic

Who chopped and chopped 

Until the point of miniscule.

Mama insists that the successful sofrito

Can sear even the chunkiest

To its crispy perfection.

A woman approaching sixty, and 

Still she looks up the recipe for when 

We slow cook black beans.