After Her Death, I Cooked My Way Through My Abuelita’s Recipe Book

I started with her famous flan de leche, which I added sweetened shredded coconut to just because. (She adored coconut ice cream and coconut cream pie, so I figured she wouldn’t mind.) My dad used to rave about her flan, along with her arroz con leche. Never having made the dessert before, I found the process to be a bit anxiety-inducing but ultimately rewarding, much like the experience of having a worry-wart abuelita who makes it her job to tell you all the potential risks of any life decision, albeit out of love. Consider the caramel-coated reveal of a remarkably intact flan a metaphor for things working out, despite her greatest fears.

Next, I tackled Cuba’s national dish, ropa vieja, a shredded beef stew made with long strips of onion and bell pepper in a tomato-based sauce. It’s arguably my dad’s signature dish, but he always used *her* recipe. The aroma alone took me back to high school, when I would invite my crush du jour to my dad’s apartment for dinner. Before getting to dig into a mountainous pile of congrí, dappled with gems of caramelized chorizo and crowned with ropa, they’d need to shake my abuelita’s hand—the easiest way for her to judge someone’s character without seeing them or speaking English—and bask in a flurry of bendiciones (Dios te bendiga was her second favorite phrase, only surpassed by si Dios quiere).

I was also eager to try her salsa fuerte, a supercharged, Caesar-like sauce starring mustard, egg yolks and anchovies. The recipe neighbors pescado asado in her recipe book, but I took the liberty of serving it alongside fried red snapper instead. At first bite, I recalled devouring my first whole fish in San Juan, Puerto Rico. If you haven’t had the pleasure, here are my tips: Beware of teeny-tiny bones, using a fork and knife is for the birds and call your abuelita to rave about it once you finish.

The most nostalgic of the bunch for me was her dulce de leche cortada, an underrated dessert that can be tough to find at even the best Cuban restaurants. Our usual sweet treat when she’d visit was Maria cookies slathered with cream cheese and a thick slab of guava paste. But if we were celebrating, dulce de leche cortada—a curdled, semi-solid version of dulce de leche—took centerstage. (Don’t knock it ’til you try it, compa).

The last time I remember eating it with my abuela was after my high school graduation. We went to our favorite local Cuban spot, and it was her first time out of the house in years. A few dapper servers flocked to the entrance to walk her to her seat at her own pace. Unbeknownst to us, there was also a live band playing that afternoon. My grandma, unable to see and decidedly sin vergüenza, was enthusiastically calling out song requests (OK, mostly “Guantanamera”) at the top of her lungs throughout their set. Teen me was mortified, until the singer came over during the intermission to kiss her hand, tell her how much he appreciated her being there and to ask her—jokingly, we think—to marry him.