Growing up in Miami in a half Hispanic family, I ate a lot of empanadas. My mom made them, her friends made them and gave them to us, we bought them at bakeries where they only spoke Spanish. The warm pastry pockets were always around, always stuffed with something different from beef to cheese to veggies.
When I lived in Italy, where empanadas are non existent, one of the students at the school I worked for made some and brought a plate by my office.
Empanadas, it seems, are destined to always be in my life. (As it turns out, I even tried my hand at making them and lo and behold, they weren’t bad, bringing the total of things I can successfully make in the kitchen up to about four.) Continue reading