As you’re probably tired of hearing, I grew up in a relatively integrated neighborhood on the North Side of Chicago. I say relatively because it was still VERY Irish when I was a kid, but we had just about every nationality I can think of. Just across the backyard of our apartment building lived the Caba Family. They had escaped Cuba. (Pronounced “Coohbah”)<\/p>\n
Memory is a funny thing, especially the memories of a family that smelled that wonderful. They were always spicy. Senior Caba (which he insisted we call him) was a jolly large man who could make his huge belly roll in undulating waves, completely fascinating. When he got off work we’d hang out at the Caba house (technically an apartment, but we called everyone’s apartment their house) with Ebito and Eva until he’d give us a wave or two. Every now and then he’d forget to put an overshirt on and would walk around in just his tank top undershirt (which we called Dago-Ts because…that’s what they were called) and we’d see the scars across his back. Being kids, we asked. He just smiled and said, “Be grateful mijos to live in such a wonderful country as America.” His wife, Senora Caba would get a wistful look in her eye and say, “He can’t live forever…someday our children will go back.” Being kids, we asked. She got a fierce look in her eye and said, “Castro!” and she spit…right there in her kitchen…she spit! Now you have to understand, that while their kitchen was and is the spiciest smelling place I’ve ever been in, it was immaculately clean. You would have never imagained.<\/p>\n