There are commercials on TV for Progressive Insurance where Dr. Rick warns us about becoming like our parents. They are supposed to be humorous, but I find them frightening. I wouldn’t mind if I had my father’s intelligence and energy or my mother’s resourcefulness and some of her good looks. But I have the feeling we don’t get to choose.
I can remember so many instances when I was mortified by my parents, especially when we arrived in this country. Our first stint was in Seattle at the University of Washington where my father was a Fulbright scholar. My mother tried to reproduce her Spanish recipes with American ingredients, which wasn’t easy. That was until she discovered the Pike Place Fish Market with its open-air shops and all kinds of gourmet and foreign foods. Since my mother couldn’t drive, my father had to take her. Often my brother and I tagged along. The situation became complicated when my dad discovered that some of the merchants were Sephardic Jews whose ancestors came originally from Spain. They even had in their possession the old family keys to their homes. Next thing we knew my father was speaking in Ladino to them, while my mother and I whispered under our breath how it would be more practical if he could speak English better.
My mother grew even more frustrated when my father started teaching at Purdue and we moved to Lafayette, Indiana. There she couldn’t find olive oil and she wondered how could she ever cook in this country. We had to go to Chicago in family outings—a two hour drive each way—to find Italian olive oil, which “just wasn’t the same.” I loved shopping in Chicago, where I discovered Peck and Peck and could look for my freshman wardrobe, since I was starting college at Purdue.
Not surprisingly, I find myself looking for anything Spanish in the Philadelphia area now. Thanks to Amazon, although I say I don’t like shopping there, I can purchase the entire line of Lavanda Puig and Maja beauty products. Didn’t I say I wanted to look like my mother?
Manchego cheese, jamón Serrano, several kinds of olives, the best canned tuna, and potato chips are all fresh from Spain at Di Bruno’s gourmet shops. Spanish olive oil is no longer a problem, even Trader Joe’s carries it. My mother would finally be happy! The ACME around the corner has Inés Rosales Sweet and Savory Olive Oil Tortas in various flavors when I didn’t even know I missed them. 
During the Holidays, I raid Delicias de España online for all the traditional almond goodies: turrón, which I don’t really like, polvorones, pasteles de Gloria. Not for nothing my nick name as a little girl was Miss Meringue (La Melengues, a child’s pronunciation for meringues). And I don’t want to mention Spanish chocolates and wines.
If I find something from Valencia, where I was born, I have to purchase it immediately, like tomato marmalade, membrillo or horchata. Not long ago, I found at HomeGoods a reed diffuser “with natural fragrances of black fig and amber” from my native city and now it’s in my bathroom, a scent I don’t recognize at all. Valencia is known for salt cured delicacies and those I haven’t been able to find anywhere. Mojama, a kind of yellowfin tuna is my favorite. On occasion some sweet friends have brought me a tasty piece air wrapped, but I can’t keep asking them every time they travel to my home.
Fresh fruits can be another source of longing. I used to crave paraguayas, white donut peaches, but lately they have appeared in the Brigantine Farmers Market. Persimmons, another treat, are ubiquitous now in the fall at the Reading Terminal Market. My last discovery has been chirimoyas. I found them this winter at Wegman’s, where they have everything. But when I tried them at home, I thought “they just aren’t the same.”