When I was about 13 years old, my parents decided to take a trip “out west.”  We flew to Colorado and drove through every state west of the Rocky Mountains.  My six-year-old brother and I sat in the backseat of the rented station wagon and looked out the window at the majestic, snowcapped Rocky Mountains, the dry dusty Arizona dessert, the wide spacious land unfolding endlessly under strips of asphalt beneath our tires. 

We were bored silly. Like scenes right out of National Lampoon’s Family Vacation, our rental car broke down in Billings Montana.  We flew a crop duster to Pocatello, Idaho and drove through Southern Oregon into San Francisco, stopping in the redwood forest along the way.

My brother and I fought endlessly.  We plagued our parents with tireless questions of “Are we there yet?”  We played the “Punchbuggy” game at the site of a Volkswagen bug and continued to look for new ways to entertain ourselves in the back seat of the rental car. 

At one point in the trip, we visited Mesa Verde, the ancient cliff dwellings of the Anasazi Indians.  The concept of cliff dwelling completely fascinated my young mind.  I wondered how they found and distributed water, disposed of garbage, managed sleepwalkers…

We carefully climbed down the ladder into the cliff dwellings and explored.  This strange and awesome feeling overcame me...  the awareness that I stood in this desolate place that held the ghosts of one of humankind’s earliest civilizations.

As we climbed back up the ladder to level ground. My mother stopped and embraced another tourist.  It was clear to me that they must have known each other for many years, although I had absolutely no idea with whom she was talking. 

My mother’s father came from Hungary.  While he was an only child, his mother came from a big family with many brothers and sisters.  My great grandmother Sarah left Hungary at the turn of the previous century to travel to America, while several of her siblings remained in Budapest.  Sarah’s brother married and had a daughter in Hungary.  During the German occupation in WW II, nearly everyone in Sarah’s family was killed except one sister, Marget, and her brother’s daughter, Cato, who escaped the war and settled in Venezuela

Sarah kept in touch by letter with Cato.  She even visited them in Caracas a few times, once bringing my mother with her.  Decades passed before my mother and Cato met again, which happened to be at the edge of the cliffs in Mesa Verde.

I adored Cato from the moment we met.  I loved the idea that I had relatives in foreign countries, because their residence held the promise of my future visit.  For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to travel the world, experience different cultures, music, food, art, architecture, language…  Cato lived the embodiment of these admirations.

Cato taught Art and language at the American University in Caracas.  A master linguist, she spoke nearly 12 different languages including, Hungarian, Russian, Polish, English, Spanish, French, Italian, and several others. 

Cato asked her daughter Suzy to take charge of most of our correspondence and for many years, Suzy and I wrote letters back and forth from New York to Caracas. 

At about 16 years old, I had a chance to see Cato again.  She traveled to New York and we met for lunch and a visit to the Museum of Modern Art.   I was so eager to show her the van Gogh Starry Night, Edvard Munch’s Scream, Klimpt, Seurat, etc.  At every painting, we encountered international tourists.  Imagine my awe when Cato responded to them, regardless of their native language. 

Around 20 years ago, Suzy moved from Caracas to Boca Raton, Florida and some years later, Cato followed.  Suzy, her daughter and I have kept in regular contact throughout the years.  I have visited them a few times now, most recently on my last trip to Florida.

As I always crave Latin food when I am in South Florida, Suzy took me to a most interesting cafeteria inside of a Latin grocery store in Coral Springs called Supermercados El Bodrgon, where everyone spoke Spanish. 

Now when it comes to languages, I can speak a very little bit of many different languages. However, I am only fluent in English.  I can speak some French (enough to get by in France) and some Spanish (far less then French, but enough to order lunch).

It was a simple lunch that consisted of white rice, baked chicken, black beans and sweet plantains.  The Spanish ladies that worked the line in back preparing each meal used hometown recipes that were distinctly different from my previous restaurant encounters.  First, they drastically reduced the salt content.  They seasoned everything with only one or two main spices.  The heat-level of the sauce that she put on my rice was slightly spicier than I am accustomed to, but I could still distinguish different flavors. 




 
This simple, humble, seemingly home cooked meal filled my body and soul on a cold, wet rainy day and prepared me for the proceeding long drive in a torrential downpour.

During my visit, Suzy shared her flan recipe with me:

Suzy’s Venezuelan Flan

Suzy stressed the importance of a proper flan pot.  Hers looks like a small aluminum hatbox with an aluminum lid.

Ingredients:
• 3 tablespoons sugar
• 1 can “Eagle” brand sweetened condensed milk
• 1 can filled with milk
• 4 eggs
• 1 tablespoon rum or brandy
(replace with vanilla extract if serving children)

Directions:
• Preheat oven to 400 degrees
• Heat sugar on the bottom of the flan pot but do not let it burn
• Blend Milk, Condensed Milk, and eggs in a blender
• Pour mix on top of caramelized sugar
• Put the flan pan in a bain marie (a larger shallow roasting pan filled ½ way with water and bake uncovered for about a ½ hour
• Cover the flan with the lid and bake for another half hour
• Allow flan to cool completely in refrigerator
• Flip the flan onto a serving dish and top with rum or brandy