My father’s dream was always to return to Puerto Rico after retirement. So when he was 59, and after I was born, we did just that, moving to a small oceanside town called Guayama, where my dad remodeled a condemned house and created a garden that was his pride and joy. The garden included a chicken coop, beans, peppers, and he even revived a papaya tree. In our town, it was common for neighbors to trade fruits and vegetables from their yards—and it was in one of these exchanges when my father acquired guingambó (okra) seeds.
He and my mom were thrilled, as good seeds were hard to come by. I must have been around 9 years old when my father made this acquisition. All I remember is that my cousin and I were playing, and we must have misplaced these golden seeds because my father was so upset at us. This coming from a man who was stern and imposing to the outside world, standing over 6 feet tall with a burly figure, but was a teddy bear at home, who joyfully played his guitar and rarely yelled at me. But these seeds were important to him, and he was so upset that decades later he would ask, “Do you remember that time you guys lost my guingambó seeds?” I would give him a shy, embarrassed smile, even in my early 30s, as a U.S. Marine Corps officer living abroad. In my head, I couldn’t help wondering why he would bring this up every single year! Perhaps, he was subconsciously planting a seed to keep his memory alive through food.
My father died in 2014 at the age of 95, and my mother and I always remembered him through food. When I visited, she always made a dish and said, “Remember when your dad used to make this?” or “I tried to make it like your dad, but it’s not the same.” In a house that revolved around food, where guests had to enter through the kitchen, many dishes held a story, including this okra stew. To dunk a tostón into a hot bowl of okra stew takes me back to those childhood days where life was much simpler than today.
Seeing guingambó guisado on menus at Puerto Rican restaurants or in a daily rotation in a Puerto Rican home is rare, even though it holds a cultural and historical place in our culinary history. Its origins on the island came from our enslaved African ancestors and became part of the diet. The stew incorporates elements like cubanelle or bell peppers, which originated in Central and South America and were introduced to Puerto Rico by Spanish colonizers. Additionally, the sweet peppers (ají dulces in the sofrito) are endemic to Puerto Rico, initially cultivated by the Taínos, the island’s indigenous people. Like many dishes in our cuisine, it serves as a reminder of our people’s complex heritage.
At the onset of the pandemic, I decided to dive deeper into our family’s recipes and go beyond the classic rice, beans and tostones, turning my attention to this dish. My happiest childhood memories were in our kitchen, and when I made this stew, those moments arose again. Beyond the memories, I noticed how my body felt better after eating it. I felt satisfied, but not overly full, and happy that I mastered my mom’s technique of a slow simmer, where the okra is cooked but still has a bit of a bite.
Fast-forward to today, and I currently live in Brussels, Belgium. Brussels has more than 180 nationalities represented in the city, and I’m fortunate to find every ingredient I need to make guingambó guisado. Whenever I need a taste of home, I go to the African markets to buy my okra. The rich stew with bits of okra and pepper served over white rice is simple to prepare, packed with flavor and history. The scent of the stew does wonders for my soul, and the comforting dish reminds me of my parents, of my family’s joy in sharing food with family and friends—and of the value of those lost guingambó seeds.
Photographer: Kelsey Hansen, Prop Stylist: Natalie Ghazali, Food Stylist: Shannon Goforth
Dining and Cooking