Virgin Piña Colada

Home from Puerto Rico. The bag of culantro in the refrigerator, the coffee in the canister, the vanilla on the spice shelf. Hartford was thirty-one degrees when I landed and I wore my coat through the terminal and complained, and Eduardo — who was holding the sign he had written that said "Carmen Delgado-Ortiz, owner of this winter coat" — laughed and gave me the coat and said nothing about the complaining.

Sunday I made arroz con pollo with the island sofrito I had brought back. Three ice cube trays of the stuff, frozen, pulled out on Saturday. The kitchen smelled different cooking with it — brighter, more aggressive, the ají dulce singing — and Eduardo came in at one point while I was stirring and said, "This smells like when your mother used to cook." I said, "Yes. That is why." He said, "Good." He went back to the paper.

Mami came for dinner Sunday. She had been at her apartment alone for the week — I had Ana drive up from Bridgeport twice to check on her, and Sofía dropped food by, and Eduardo visited daily — and she was happy to see me. She said, "You were gone a long time." I said, "Six days, Mami." She said, "It felt longer." She said it the way mothers say things like that, without weight, without accusation. Just the observation. I said, "I know, Mami. I am back." She nodded. She ate her arroz con pollo. She said, "The chicken is right." High praise.

At work Monday I called a meeting with my two shift managers — Gladys and Marcus, the morning lead — and I told them I was retiring in June. Not an announcement to the broader staff yet. Just them. They had both suspected. Gladys nodded and said, "I will be ready." Marcus, who is thirty-eight and has worked for me for eleven years, teared up briefly and then pulled himself together and said, "Carmen, we will keep the kitchen as you built it." I said, "You will change it. You should. That is how it stays alive." He nodded. We got on with the weekly planning meeting. The cafeteria runs.

Tuesday I started drafting the transition document. Forty pages of operational notes, menu rotations, vendor contacts, seasonal adjustments, the things that live in my head that need to live on paper. It will take me three months to write it down. I am not used to writing things down. I am used to knowing them. But Gladys will need the paper. Someone after Gladys will need the paper. The hospital will need the paper when Gladys retires in ten years.

Thursday night Eduardo brought home flowers. For no reason. I said, "Eduardo, it is not Valentine's." He said, "I missed you." Thirty-four years. Wepa.

The arroz con pollo was Sunday’s gift — the sofrito, the ají dulce, Mami saying the chicken was right. But by Thursday, when Eduardo came through the door with flowers for no reason at all, what I wanted was something cold and tropical and a little bit celebratory, something that tasted like the island I had just left and the home I was so glad to be back in. A Virgin Piña Colada is exactly that: Puerto Rico in a glass, no apology, no rum required — because some moments are sweet enough on their own.

Prep Time: 5 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 5 min | Servings: 2

Ingredients

2 cups fresh or frozen pineapple chunks
1 cup coconut cream
1/2 cup pineapple juice, chilled
1 cup ice cubes
1 tablespoon honey or simple syrup (optional, to taste)
Pineapple slices and maraschino cherries, for garnish

Instructions

Combine. Add the pineapple chunks, coconut cream, pineapple juice, and ice to a blender.
Blend. Blend on high for 45–60 seconds until completely smooth and creamy. Taste and add honey or simple syrup if you’d like it sweeter; blend briefly to incorporate.
Serve. Pour into two chilled glasses. Garnish each with a pineapple slice and a maraschino cherry. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Virgin Piña Colada — Puerto Rico Came Home With Me