By Nochebuena 2020. The pandemic Christmas. The Christmas that should not have happened and did, because I am Carmen Delgado-Ortiz and I said it would and when I say something will happen it happens the way gravity happens — not because I choose it but because the universe arranges itself around the certainty.
They came. All of them. Miguel Jr. and Jenny and Lucas (two and a half, running, shouting, magnificent) and Isabella (five months, round, serious, wearing a red Christmas onesie). Rosa and Carlos, driving up from New Haven with a container of Carlos's flan, which Carmen evaluates as 'improving.' David and James, arriving by train Tuesday evening, James carrying a bag of gifts and the expression of a man who has been invited into a family and is still slightly astonished by the volume. Sofía, setting the table, the cloth with red flowers, Mami's tablecloth, the one that only comes out for Christmas and weddings and funerals. Ana from Bridgeport. Mami, in her wheelchair, in the shawl, at the head of the table.
Fifteen people. The table seats twelve. Three extra chairs from the neighbors, who know the drill even in a pandemic. The windows were open — cold air, December air, but the open windows were the compromise, the ventilation, the permission structure that allowed fifteen people in one room. Everyone was masked until the food was served, and then the masks came off and the eating began and the eating was communion, the eating was the most religious experience of the year, because fifteen people at a table eating my pernil after nine months of separation is not dinner, it is resurrection.
The pernil was transcendent. I say this not with modesty but with accuracy. Twenty-two pounds, five days of marinade, six hours of roasting, the skin crackling with the sound of a promise kept. I carved it at the counter at midnight — Nochebuena tradition, midnight, the whole family watching — and served it with arroz con gandules and tostones and pasteles from the freezer, boiled and steaming, and habichuelas and ensalada de coditos and David's tres leches and my flan and coquito that Eduardo mixed and the table was full and the house was full and I was full and Mami said, More garlic, Carmen, and everyone laughed and the laughter was the sound of a family that the pandemic tried to break and could not. Wepa.
Eduardo’s coquito was the last thing poured that night — cold, rich, tasting of coconut and memory — and even now when I want to feel that fullness again, that sense of fifteen people pressed together against a pandemic and winning, I reach for something coconut. This smoothie is not coquito. It is not midnight and it is not Mami at the head of the table. But the coconut cream is the same and the richness is the same and some mornings that is exactly enough.
Creamy Coconut Smoothie
Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 5 minutes | Servings: 2
Ingredients
- 1 can (13.5 oz) full-fat coconut milk
- 1 large frozen banana, sliced
- 1/2 cup plain or vanilla Greek yogurt
- 2 tablespoons honey or agave nectar
- 1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1 cup ice cubes
- Toasted coconut flakes, for garnish (optional)
Instructions
- Combine. Add the coconut milk, frozen banana, Greek yogurt, honey, vanilla extract, and cinnamon to a blender.
- Blend. Add the ice cubes and blend on high speed for 60—90 seconds until completely smooth and creamy, with no chunks remaining.
- Taste and adjust. Taste the smoothie and add more honey if you prefer it sweeter, or another pinch of cinnamon for warmth.
- Serve. Pour into two tall glasses. Garnish with toasted coconut flakes if desired and serve immediately.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 390 | Protein: 7g | Fat: 24g | Carbs: 38g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 55mg