We grew up next door to my grandmother, and every year in the days before Christmas I watched her carry out the rituals of tamalada preparation. One day she would prepare the savory pork for the filling; the next, she would simmer a smoky red chile sauce. As soon as I approached her back door, I could tell the ritual had begun—aromas and activity that lasted for days.
I knew the big day was near when corn husks soaked in the sink and silky threads covered the counters. I liked to clean them up; sometimes I pretended they were floss. For years my job was to remove the silk threads from the soaked husks, and it made me feel important.
Grandma always had lively Mexican music playing in the background. I especially loved when she would dance with me in her kitchen. If I could go back in time, I would relive those moments again and again. One of her favorite songs was “Jesusita en Chihuahua.” When the melody crackled through the small radio perched on the washing machine, I knew we would dance. She was always so happy. I can still hear the shuffle of her shoes across the linoleum floor.
A fresh pot of beans bubbled on the stove, salsa sat on the table, and flour tortillas came warm off the comal. I was always thrilled when Grandma asked me to take a break and fixed me what felt like the biggest bean burrito in the world. Fresh bean juice would drip down my arms and I’d lick it off quickly before she noticed and told me not to.
She never used a mixer for the masa; she kneaded it by hand. Carefully, she spread a thin layer of masa over each corn husk, then added just the right amount of pork and red chile sauce. One year a few tias came to help; Grandma welcomed the help but supervised the filling closely. She insisted every tamal have a perfect balance of masa and meat—she always said there was nothing worse than a tamal with more masa than filling.
The last time she made tamales she was 96. I think she knew it might be the final time she had the strength. She asked my mother to bring her masa so she could make a batch—after all, she still had gifts to give. My mother gently pushed Grandma’s wheelchair to the kitchen table, and for the last time we watched her knead love into tamales. No one in our family has quite matched her touch, but we try. We’ve learned it takes time and practice to approach her flavor. We use the same recipe and each year we come a little closer. My mother has come closest to Grandma’s taste. Having made tamales as an adult, I understand the labor of love they require—this was Grandma’s gift to our family.
The kitchen is the heart of the home, the place that brings everyone together. Wanting to keep the tradition alive for my children, my husband and I have hosted several tamaladas with dear friends we consider family. Our wish to preserve Grandma’s memory keeps us making tamales year after year. One year my mother sewed matching aprons for her two granddaughters; they wore them while preparing husks and making tiny sweet tamales. We all wish we lived closer so we could cook together more often. Children love to cook—it’s one of those rare occasions when they have our undivided attention.
In honor of our grandmother Jesusita, may you find as much joy in the kitchen as we have. Create your own meaningful moments by exploring foods that bring you joy and sharing them with loved ones.
Our grandmother’s full tamale recipe will be included with the release of the Muy Bueno Cookbook.
Children can become talented cooks with a lasting appreciation for food. Here are some excellent cookbooks to inspire young chefs.
A version of this story was also featured on Tiki Tiki Blog.
Photography by Jeanine Thurston
Pssst… don’t forget the 2011 Muy Bueno Calendar.