DAVID SILVA -- Inside/out

If the governor really wanted to solve California’s power woes, he

might consider putting in a call to my mother, a proven expert in the

field of energy acquisition and distribution.

I imagine such a call would go like this: Davis would, in that robotic

way of his, say: “Dolores, they tell me you know all about the energy

business. So tell me, how do I provide power to my people?”

And my mother would lean forward and answer: “Well, Gray, I’ll tell

you how I did it. Rice and beans.”

The human body needs about 2,600 calories of energy a day to function

properly, twice that if you eat like my brother Michael. Multiply that by

six kids and that’s 15,600 calories every day.

My mother was responsible for providing every single one of those

calories, not even counting her own nutritional needs. For a low-income

Latina mother of six, that meant only two things: rice and beans.

Rice is one of the world’s perfect foods. It’s rich in carbohydrates

and other wholesome nutrients. Almost nobody on the planet is allergic to

it. It’s easily prepared, and complements just about everything. But it

especially complements beans, another of God’s most noble gifts. Beans

are full of protein, are so varied in size and shapes and tastes that you

sometimes don’t even know you’re eating them, and look absolutely

delicious laid out next to a serving of rice. Add beans to rice, or rice

to beans, and you have a meal.

Rice and beans are also very inexpensive, which of course is the most

important quality about them. My mother could easily spend $200 a week --

this is back in the ‘60s and ‘70s -- on groceries; more if she wanted the

little extras, like proper nutrition for her kids. Rice and beans cost

pennies a pound, and a little went a long way. Once she had the rice and

beans going, all my mom had to do was find a chicken or some other kind

of meat substance and her children had a complete meal. My mother was a

big believer in meat. But when times were really tough, well, at least we

had the rice and beans.

We’d ask mom what was for dinner, and more often than not she’d say,

“Chicken.” Which meant chicken boiled in a pot with potatoes and

seasonings, and rice and beans. Sometimes she’d cook the rice right in

the pot with the chicken, and dinner would suddenly adopt a sense of

ethnic pride and call itself o7 arroz con pollof7 . Less frequently,

about once a week or so, we’d ask what’s for dinner and mom would say,

“Steak.” Which meant some cheap cut of beef boiled in a pot with potatoes

and seasonings, and rice and beans.

Everything had to go into a pot. Beef. Pork. Chicken. It went further

that way.

Sometimes I would ask my mom what was for dinner just after my brother

or sister had asked the same question, and my mom would get annoyed and

reply “Lobster,” or “Filet mignon.” I’d say, “Really?” and she’d say,

“No. It’s chicken. Now go watch TV.”

Often, my mother would serve o7 platanosf7 , fried plantains, with

the rice and beans. But these she considered a luxury, and they were the

first to go in lean times. A plate of chicken, rice, beans and platanos

was the complete package, and an indicator of things going relatively

well in our household.

Mom became a positive wizard with rice and beans. She had been

preparing them since she was old enough to hold a pot, having cooked for

her brothers and sisters, and by the time I came along had perfected the

art. She knew exactly the right cooking times, knew just the right amount

of seasonings and stock and vegetables to throw in, and when. My mother

was famous for her Spanish rice and beans, Puerto Rican rice and beans,

o7 arroz con gandulesf7 (rice and chick peas -- the mystery bean) --

just about any rice and bean dish one could imagine so long as it didn’t

call for expensive ingredients. The quality of my mother’s rice and beans

was the best part about being poor.

Of course, my brothers and sisters and I had no way of knowing that

this food served to us every day could grace the finest restaurants in

town. It was all we knew. And because it was all we knew, we didn’t

appreciate it. We would whine and protest for variety, for something

flashier than rice and beans, and my mother would say, “One day, you’re

going to wish you had food like this. You’ll go to bed dreaming of it.”

Our friends had a greater appreciation of my mother’s cooking. We’d

invite them to dinner, and they’d say, “Ooh, is your mom gonna make rice

and beans?” My siblings and I were always blown away by this reaction. To

us, it was like asking the castaways from “Gilligan’s Island”: “Ooh, are

you guys gonna have coconuts?”

It didn’t escape my mother’s attention that anyone who dined at her

house instantly fell in love with her cooking. For years, she had made a

few extra bucks here and there selling plates of her food at holiday

events and the big Puerto Rican Festival in San Pedro. She decided to get

serious about it.

She introduced her rice and beans to the menu of the cafeteria where

she worked as a cook, and they became such a hit that she added other

items, like tamales and o7 arroz con pollof7 . She made so much money

for the company that the owners expanded the cafeteria -- which had

really been just a snack shop inside a department store -- into a

full-fledged restaurant. And they made my mother the manager of it.

From that base of operations, she launched her catering business,

Dolores’ Catering. Soon, the Huntington Park Chamber of Commerce, the

Huntington Park Police Department and City Hall were all calling her for

her rice and beans. She catered weddings and birthday parties. In this

way, my mother graduated from wizard to alchemist. She took her rice and

beans and turned them into gold. She never made a fortune, but she made

enough so we could finally stop calling ourselves poor.

Some people achieve success by buying and selling real estate, others

by playing the stock market. My mother soaked, boiled and simmered her

way to the American Dream.

Rice and beans paid for my mother’s down payment on her home. They

paid for my sisters’ proms. They paid for my brother’s class ring and

they paid for the suit I wore at my graduation.

My mother called me the other day as I was eating a Marie Callendar’s

frozen dinner. She asked if I wanted to come over and visit her Sunday.

“I’d love to,” I said, “But I already have plans. How about next week?”

“Oh, come over, Davey,” she insisted. “I’m making dinner.”

That made me pause. “What are you making?”

“Chicken,” she said.

Now, how could I say no to that?

That night, I went to bed dreaming of rice and beans.

* DAVID SILVA is the city editor of the Glendale News-Press, a sister

paper to the Daily Pilot. His columns will appear occasionally on

Sundays. He can be reached by e-mail at david.silva@latimes.com.