The walls of Havana creak with the rain and the breeze of Idalia. While the radio predicts that everything is in order, the jets of water slip between the tiles and fall, relentless, skirting the walls. However, what worries Aurelia the most, 61 years old and fond of cooking, is what she is going to eat at her house while the storm lasts.
In her building in Centro Habana, several retirees like her tried to equip themselves—with very little luck—so they wouldn’t have to go out in the rain. The result of the hunt is lean: a pound of ground chicken, a knob of El Cocinero oil, and rice.
Neighbors traffic small amounts of rice, flour or eggs to, together, complete a meal
Pedro, one of Aurelia’s old friends, remembered that Cubadebate it had a gastronomy section and that, perhaps, could give them an idea to bite the bullet and invent a banquet. Taste and Traditionthe column from gourmet Silvia Gómez Fariñas, leaves you all musty with the “official Cuban recipe book”: butifarra, guava jelly, beef burger, mango chutney, breaded chicken with peanuts, fried vegetables, not to mention the wacky instructions for the shark clubbed and fish in green sauce and with malarrabia.
“We will have to make do with the creative cuisine of the revolutionary grandmothers,” Aurelia ironically, among the insults of the others to the opulent menu of Cubadebate. Phone in hand, he begins to call other neighbors and “negotiate.”
Ernesto, who lives on the first floor, will lend you a few handfuls of powdered egg. “Let’s do the same deal as the other day,” Aurelia proposes, reminding him that, in exchange for the egg, he got some croquettes she had prepared. The same operation, calling her neighbor Sandra hers, guarantees her a little chives and two or three spices.
The oil begins to boil, Ernesto prepares a salad, someone else the rice, and Aurelia throws the hash into the cauldron.
The kitchen counter begins to look less squalid, and Aurelia gets to work. At the last minute, a packet of flour appears. “I sold the cigars from the bodega and got this a few days ago,” says Pedro. As if making contrition, he confesses to his friends that she was saving the flour to make some sweets, but since the eggs don’t come through the notebook, it’s better to use them and that’s it. “Life is one,” she concludes, while the downpour continues to beat the windows of the house.
The oil begins to boil, Ernesto prepares a salad, someone else the rice, and Aurelia throws the hash into the cauldron. Disappointed, she notes the flesh dwindling onto the metal. Shortly after, already at the table, everyone devours Aurelia’s picadillo with white rice. “It won’t be the shark-pummeled of Cubadebatebut it is what it is,” he says.
The coffee – a bit watery – rounds off the meal. It begins to clear over Havana. Someone opens a window to let the fresh air in, but Aurelia asks that they close it: the neighborhood dump, located a few meters below her window, must be in her “caramel spot”. She is right, whoever looks out the window will see a swarm swarming over the garbage. “With so much dirt, it’s best not to talk too much,” she warns. “If you’re not careful, flies will get into your mouth.”
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