On my recent trip to Guatemala, I discovered its rich and unique coffee. It got me thinking, I definitely don’t write about coffee as much as I should, considering how much I love Coffee.
On almost every cobblestone street in Antigua, you can find a wonderful cafe. Many of them have a modern look and feel, which creates an interesting contrast with the antique Baroque city walls. Like many homes and businesses in this timeless city, they often open into interior courtyards filled with vining plants, ferns, and tropical trees. One of my favorite spots even had a coffee tree growing in the cafe courtyard! Definitely don’t write about coffee as much as I should, considering how much I love Coffee.
What makes Guatemalan coffee stand out from so many Central American coffees? The volcanic soil. And it’s one of the premier locations in the whole world for coffee-growing.
Guatemalan coffee is known for its complex, bright flavor, with hints of chocolate, smoke, or fruit. Much of it is grown high in the mountains, between 4,000 and 6,000 feet above sea level, where cooler temperatures allow the coffee cherries (seeds) to mature slowly. That slower ripening concentrates the flavor and gives the coffee its lively, unique acidity.
The first sip was ground beans bought at a tiendita (small shop), right out of an Uber just after landing. We needed it for the morning. The taste was so different, definitely acidic and spicy was the wow factor. It took a little getting used to. With a bit of Airbnb raw sugar, we acclimated!
The volcanic soil plays a huge role in the flavor. Around Antigua and Acatenango, coffee grows in mineral-rich earth formed by three volcanoes—Fuego (still active), Acatenango, and Agua. One night from a cute rooftop restaurant, we even saw Fuego sending fire and smoke into the sky! The ash from these volcanoes enriches the soil, helping produce high-quality, shade-grown Arabica beans.
I learned Guatemala has eight distinct coffee-growing regions, each with its own flavor. Antigua coffees are full-bodied with chocolate notes and a smoky aroma. Huehuetenango coffees can be more fruity and wine-like (sigh). Atitlán cafe has the spice, thanks to the surrounding volcanoes. The volcano coffees are my favorite by far. My first sip had me thinking, “What am I drinking?!” Followed quickly by a jolt of eye-opening, tourist energy.
What’s nice to know is that most of the coffee is still grown by small farms. The farmers hand-pick the cherries, wash and dry them in the shiny Guatemalan sun. Guatemala is the second-largest exporter of coffee in Central America, and its unique beans can be found all over the world. I’d recommend finding a cup here in NYC and having a lively taste of Antigua culture.
Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coffee_production_in_Guatemala, blog.suvie.com
by Paula D.
on March 25, 2026 7:54 am in Food
Pupusa in the Uto-Aztecan Nawat language means “to stuff,” or “to puff up.”
I just got back from Guatemala and El Salvador, feeling recharged and full of new food inspiration. El Salvador is a lovely, vibrant country. The trip was about surfing, sunshine, and slowing down. The waves were on the “smaller” side, around 3 feet. It’s a point break; they always go right, and I’m goofy, so it was a bit of a challenge. I learned some things, built up my paddling arms, and connected with the beautiful, warm sea.
Salvadorians are incredibly kind, greeting you with a smile. In this area, most speak their native language, but we had Google Translate and enough awkward Spanish and restaurant words to make it by.
We stayed in El Sunzal, a sleepy surf town, a 10-minute beach walk to the more touristy El Tunco. In El Tunco, you’ll find little shops, smoothies, coffee spots, and restaurants. Some restaurants were a little American in style, and there was even an Asian fusion place serving bao buns.
I quickly learned pupusas were what I was looking for—the beloved national food of El Salvador. We finally found them a couple of days in and ate pupusas every day until it was time to hop on the plane to Guatemala.
Pupusas are thick, handmade corn or rice tortillas “cakes” stuffed with savory fillings like cheese, beans, pork, or chicharrón. They’re traditionally served with curtido, a tangy, pickled cabbage relish, and a sweet tomato salsa. This food dates back more than 2,000 years to the Indigenous Pipil people of the region. Simple food, rich history, and absolutely worth finding and tasting.
The best place for pupusas in El Tunco was a very small shop with one table inside. The whole family took part in the cooking and preparation. They’ll give you a stool to sit on the narrow curb while you wait for the fresh pupusas to be prepared. Out of a big bucket, a handful of the tortilla mixture gets flattened and then cupped in the hand. The cheese, beans, or other filling is added in the center cup. It’s then lightly covered and pressed down again. There was a flat cooking griddle where the mother fried them up on a barely greased surface. The sauces are put in thin, little plastic bags.
We tried many Pupusas from different joints, but this spot is the best. What made them more delicious was the special pickled cabbage mixture (curtido). I’m not sure of all the ingredients, but it had the perfect amount of spice, tang, salt, and liquid to pour over the warm cheesy pupusa. At other pupuserias, the cabbage mixture didn’t compare.
This spot didn’t have a restaurant name on the rugged, cement wall. If you find yourself in El Sunzal, go past the small riverway, make your first left into the ciudad of El Tunco, keep walking straight until you see a Japanese restaurant called Japan Food Tunco Beach (address: Playa, La Libertad, El Salvador). The best pupusa spot is next to that on your left.
I won’t be back to Central America anytime soon, who knows the tastiest Pupusa spots in Queens? Let’s go!
For more food discovery, follow me on Instagram: @theglorifiedtomato.
Source: https://en.wikipedia.org
by Paula D.
on March 25, 2026 7:47 am in Food / Recipes
Turns out it’s super simple and worth making for a creamy, rich, sweet flavor and smooth texture. It’s way, way more delicious than the store-bought spray can or frozen container versions.
There is one thing: some recipes say you can use whipping cream. Also sometimes called “heavy whipping cream.” I’ve always been so confused by the million different types of dairy, especially the ones in the tiny, cute milk cartons. And the others, whole milk, reduced-fat, low-fat, skim, no fat, cream, lactose-free, organic, raw, unpasteurized, not homogenized, oh my.
The internet cleared things up a bit and told me the difference between heavy cream and whipping cream basically is the difference in fat. Heavy cream is richer at about 36% fat, so it whips up sturdier, holds peaks longer, and is better for creamy sauces because it’s less likely to separate. Whipping cream is lighter, 30% fat. It still whips, just softer and less stable. And here’s a fun fact: Cool Whip isn’t even milk; it’s a frozen, vegetable oil-based sweet topping.
And Reddi-wip will forever remind me of the 2023 Beach 91st Street Community Garden Pie Party—the year it absolutely poured, and I had to move the whole fundraiser at the last minute to my house. It was still a great event, and we sold a ton of pies.
One of the “fun” activities I’d planned was pie-in-the-face… which is really just a pie tin filled with Reddi-wip. I was kinda fascinated that people weren’t into it. I guess getting something thrown in your face is actually pretty aggressive and a sticky dairy assault. I ended up with ten cans of Reddi-wip in my fridge, and I (not slowly) ate it straight from the can with the fridge door open. Ah, memories.
Homemade Whipped Cream
What you need:
Hand-held or stand mixer with whisk attachment
Mixing bowl
1 cup cold heavy cream
2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Directions: In a large bowl, use a handheld mixer with a whisk to whip the heavy cream, sugar, and vanilla on medium-high until you get medium peaks, about 3,4 minutes (Medium peaks stand up at attention). If you go a little too far and it starts looking curdled and heavy, don’t worry, add a small amount of heavy cream and gently fold it in by hand with a spatula until it smooths back out. Use right away, or cover tightly and refrigerate for up to 24 hours.
Homemade whipped cream is perf for desserts, ice cream, fruit, and the best box brownies— it makes everything taste like you tried and will elevate all!
For more on food (and all of it) visit follow me, day-to-day, navigating Rockaway and the world on Instagram: @theglorifiedtomato.
Source: sallysbakingaddiction.com/homemade-whipped-cream
It was a warm Modelo before ten in the morning. I was hiding, drinking it in the basement. The day before, I’d gotten back from a weekend trip to Florida for my friend’s 40th birthday, where I drank day and night straight. I felt so sick. It was the only alcohol in the house and the only thing that eased the pain in my lower back, the nausea, the shaking, the anxiety. And the shame.
That was my last drink.
Before I relapsed 3 months and 17 days later.
That was at least a delicious bottle (or so) of Pinot Noir — really the last drink.
I’ve been sober 4 years now. February 10th is my day.
I try to piece together how I went from the popular, athletic, fun, “everybody loves Paula” girl in high school, to the woman riddled with fear, and guilt on the cold tile floor of my basement, drinking that warm beer. The lowest place in my house, and lowest I’ve ever felt.
It doesn’t happen overnight, I can tell you that, but I felt it inside of my being at a young age, maybe 7 or 8 years old. Not having the words, but it was a feeling of restlessness and a needing to be calmed and soothed.
I drank my first drink at 14 years old, in my own childhood home with my best friend. We were the “clean-up crew” at my sister’s party. You know, clean up and drink the leftovers or whatever the high schoolers would give you. I was born into popularity, before I understood all that. Those days were free and fun. I couldn’t see beyond the present.
I remember bringing orange juice and vodka in my lacrosse water bottle for the 8th grade GO Dance. I brought it in the morning, and we picked it up from my locker that Friday night. Clever, right. I got very good at being an alcoholic at a very young age.
Drinking was normal in my high school — it was praised, in fact. Most of the parents let us hang out in their houses and drink, or there would be huge parties in backyards and the cops would come but do nothing. Par for the course. We’d set up camping trips, binge drink, cook over fire and swim — 15 kids sometimes. We’d drink and smoke weed on the streets. In cars. At Jones Beach, on that guy’s speed boat. We’d drink at the movies. If you’re familiar with Long Island, you know about the sumps. We’d bring kegs in the sumps, over fences and train tracks. We skipped prom and took a bus to a rave. I went to many raves, what a time.
I knew by my senior year of high school that I liked drinking. A lot. I liked that it calmed me. And I’d feel excited, and social. I liked feeling adult, too. I felt like I was beginning to develop a sense of self and community. I knew nothing else.
I remember one instance, drinking beer on a school night with my older sister, on the bed just watching TV — our shared room was in the basement. Ironic? We were drinking just because we could, I guess. It felt good.
The next day, though, I didn’t feel great — and I had lacrosse practice. Something that morning registered, but I couldn’t quite place it. The blackouts started around this time, too. I was 17 years old. I was always the one who wanted one more glass. I never wanted the party to end. I was never satisfied. Starting to sound familiar?
College was almost tame compared to my high school years. I felt like a seasoned drinker and a seasoned New Yorker — compared to my out-of-state classmates, already having been to the Limelight and The Tunnel, and to art shows in Williamsburg. I understood the sacrifice my parents made for my Pratt education and dorm (only 30 minutes away from where I grew up). They gave me everything I asked for and more. So there was a sense of responsibility I gained in college — not to say I stopped partying.
In my 20s, post college, I held it together: working in the city, partying at night, and jumping back on the LIRR in the morning, feeling shitty but not too bad. It was a lifestyle for me and many of my friends so it didn’t seem like a big deal.
The shift came in my early 30s. It got harder to drink and get all of the adulting done. But worse, I started to feel this sense of guilt — like I was doing something wrong. Drinking didn’t feel as fun anymore. It became something to manage.
Thinking back, I can’t believe I planned my drinking around my job. “Well, if I get it all done on Friday, I can drink Sunday and not have to worry about anything on Monday.” And by “worry,” I mean I had a day to recover from a weekend of binge drinking — and God knows what else. My addiction became a priority.
I tried a few things at this point. I limited my drinking to weekends only, but that just meant I went harder those two/three days. The one time I actually tried to stop, I managed two weeks. I didn’t really want to stop yet, and I didn’t know how. I did know my drinking was a problem and it wasn’t going to get better.
I just wanted to be normal and drink like everyone else. I didn’t want to be the one who had to be carried home. It was sloppy and embarrassing. Some family and friends tried to bring it up with me at this point. Blackouts were so bad, they caused me terrible anxiety, “OMG, What did I do?” But even still, I could not stop drinking. I was addicted physically and mentally. I couldn’t imagine a life without alcohol in it. “How do you go to a wedding and not drink?”
My addiction resulted in a monumental shift in my life. At 41, everything secure — everything I felt I’d built — my identity, my world, disappeared in one single moment. I felt myself slip away, like a ghost exiting my body. The world calls it divorce.
At first, sobriety was a last-ditch effort to save my marriage. I thought, “If I get sober, everything will go back to normal.” But it was more complex than that.
In 2021, I was sober, living alone, not eating, panic attacks on the bathroom floor, smoking cigarettes, not working, not breathing — the time never seemed to pass. I know what it feels like to be alive and dead at the same time.
I had my sisters, my mother and father, those few friends who are my family and a walk-in recovery clinic in Far Rockaway. That’s how I got through the first few minutes, hours, days, months and finally years of not picking up.
When I started to emerge, I was petrified to see people and have to interact. One of the first places I had to go was to get food. I still get weird flashbacks when I’m at Key Food. It’s wild. Funny thing, my anxiety was worse at this time than when I was a hungover drunk.
Soon enough, I’m hit with the first baby shower — without a drink. Hell. “How do you do Christmas Eve without red wine? What will my cousins say.”
Then it was pretending to have a drink in my hand at music shows in Brooklyn, still trying to hold on to a part of the old me. I was embarrassed and scared to tell those friends I was sober, so I didn’t. I thought I would lose them too. I had lost so much already.
The cravings and the crying. Zero self-esteem. Fitting in nowhere because alcohol is everywhere. The “ethical” princesses that swore they loved me and then judged my behaviors and disappeared. The worry of money, losing the house, lawyers, divorcing my world — I was in and out of states of panic attacks that first and second year and I didn’t pick up one, single, drink.
Rockaway didn’t recognize me, 30 pounds lighter (no booze and no appetite). Friends and neighbors commented on how great I looked, but all I saw, naked in the mirror, was a brittle skeleton of my past life. “Thanks, I started surfing. It’s great exercise!”
And somewhere within that mess, I decided I never wanted to drink again — to save me, and nothing else. Things slowly, and nonlinearly, started to pivot. I was healing, working again, and feeling joy. I was re-learning how to be a person in this world without my friend Pinot Noir.
Sobriety, for me, is a rediscovery of who I am — and I am so many things. Sometimes I feel like I have superpowers and a sixth-sense intuition. I feel emotions at hyperforce, for better or worse. I still have cravings sometimes. I feel everything and at times it is very hard.
I feel the relief of not having to depend on a substance, and that’s an indescribable joy. I feel free. I like this version of me. And I thank God, because these past 4 years — with its heartbreak and triumphs — have been a tremendous gift.
I’ve done countless crazy and risky things as a drinker and that will always be a part of who I am. But you know what has been the most outrageous, punk-rock thing I’ve ever done?
Getting sober.
If you feel your relationship with alcohol has become a struggle, it might be time to do the craziest thing you can ever imagine. It’s beautiful on the other side. Reach out if you want to talk: @theglorifiedtomato.
