Bajo un palo de Caimito

Welcome to 'al fresco', a blog dedicated to food and all things related. Here, I will write about my experiences eating at home and in restaurants, food trucks, street vendors... – simply memorable meals. For my first entry, I thought I'd share a story from childhood, from the place where I truly became a passionate food lover: Santiago de Veraguas.

Main gate of Tío Adolfo's Farm,
San Francisco, Veraguas, Panama

As a kid, I used to go to there a lot. It's where my aunt Jesisca lives with her husband Adolfo, the son of a Lebanese immigrant with a passion for food–and experimenting with it. Tío Adolfo is a well-respected surgeon who also owns a small farm on the road from Santiago to San Francisco, the gateway to the Central Mountain range of Panama. The Santa María river, one of our largest, runs through this beautiful land, making it possible for my Tío to grow watermelon, tomato, capsicum, and other vegetables, depending on the season, market trends, and rotation of the soil.

On New Year's day, the extended family usually went to the banks of the river, where an ancient Caimito tree stood, as if guarding the surrounding landscape, devoid of other large vegetation. Under its shade, we would share the leftovers of New Year's eve meals, as well as freshly-cooked delicacies. Each family brought their contribution: Tamales, Tortillas de Maíz, Roasted Turkey, Glazed Ham, Arroz con pollo, Potato Salad, fried and baked Kibbe, Tabboule, Pita with hummus, Baklava... a true rainbow of colors, flavors, traditions, culture. Pure joy.

One of my uncle's experiments
with watermelons.
From his backyard nursery.

One year, Tío decided he would try out a recipe he'd seen while studying Medicine in Guadalajara: Puerco Enterrado, the buried pork. I went to the farm with him before sunrise, where there was already a three-meter hole dug in the ground, with river stones and a huge, flaming bonfire on the bottom. We took a whole side of pork and put it in a very large metal pot, with dashes of olive oil and locally-grown herbs and condiments – among them rosemary, coriander and habanero peppers (we know it as ají chombo).

We lowered the pot carefully with ropes. We then covered the hole with a few pieces of an old tin roof, then dry palm leaves (we call them pencas) and then ground. We made sure it was airtight, so that the fire would go out. The tightness would also help to contain the heat from the stones. The pork would stay there for six hours.

As the sun rose, we cooked the pork belly in water over a wood stove, and had it for breakfast with
fresh bread and coffee. It was magical to see the first rays of light paint the landscape; the sparkles on the river, the matte reflections on the crops, birds of several kinds dotting the skies.

Six hours later, when everybody had arrived, we dug the pork out. The flesh would come off the bones, it was so succulent, so moist, so flavorful! I couldn't remember tasting anything as delicious before then. I felt so proud of having been a part of the process, seeing now the smiling faces of everyone as they worked through the pork. You could see the happiness, taste it, feel it.

I learned that day that anything you do honestly and with love, has a pretty good chance of being received with love. With food, when I cook, this is my utmost goal. The pork wasn't only magically delicious because it tasted great (boy, it sure did!), but also because Tío had put his love into making it a magical experience. It was this, and many experiences like it, which helped me become passionate about eating, cooking and sharing food.

I hope you enjoy my culinary adventures, and I promise future posts won't be as long! Welcome once again, and Buen Provecho!