Food and family: renewing traditions and reconnecting with the past

 

by Tom Moore

 

We had talked about it for a while, my cousins and I and our families. For a couple of years, we had kicked around the idea of getting together during the Christmas season to make tamales. Our lives had been pulling everyone further apart a little more each year, with real "grown-up" jobs, and marriages that entail new responsibilities like holidays spent with in-laws.

The older I get and the more people I talk to over time, I seem to find that my family, immediate and extended, is an almost rare creature: we actually enjoy each other's company, and look forward to the occasions we can get together, in larger numbers the better, over tables laden with food and drink, my father and uncle playing guitar and singing, six conversations going at the same time that everyone is able to keep track of anyway.

Such gatherings used to be common, once every couple of months or so. But the last decade saw these events dwindle to once or twice a year, with Christmas at least always making the cut. It was most especially Christmas that many of us have wanted to keep as the one holiday we try to get together for, simply because of the tradition of doing so, at my mother's parents' house in San Antonio, for as long as we could remember.

One powerful childhood memory of that tradition was tamales on Christmas Eve, their rich aroma growing stronger as midnight neared and reaching full bloom as they were pulled steaming from the pot on the stove, mixing headily with the earthy scent of coffee. That smell in the sharp chill of a December night had been missing for many years from our Grandma and Grandpa Porras' house, that white house on the corner, where my aunt Minerva Nuñez now lives.

It was long past time we brought it back. We could, once again, talk about trying our hand at making tamales, about how much fun it would be to have everyone over to the house to help. Or, we could actually do it. But this would be the first time for many of us, and the first time in a good while for the others. So we needed a plan. And before everything else, I had to find out if anyone else really wanted to jump in.

I started early, on Halloween night, making calls and having conversations. Everyone liked the idea. We chose the weekend before Christmas for the event. Aunt Minerva agreed to have the tamalada at her house. My cousin Patricia Nuñez would help with the preparations. And I would do whatever work necessary to make this happen.

 

Prelude to Tamalfest

I drove up to San Antonio Friday evening. The house was buzzing with holiday activity. My cousin Gaby Tovar, Patricia's sister, was there with her three-year-old daughter Anais, helping decorate the living room. My aunt Viola Arrellano (Aunt Baby), my mother's other sister, was there also, visiting from Denver for Christmas. Pat was down from Austin .

We decided to shop that night. Too many unknown factors faced us Saturday to leave a shopping expedition for the morning. So Pat and I were off to the HEB at San Pedro and Oblate.

Pat had a general idea of what ingredients we would need, with tips from our parents to round out her shopping list. She already had masa, chile ancho, and some chile cascabel and chile de arbol that she had bought in Austin . We hunted down hojas, garlic, onion, lard, more chile ancho, and about 25 pounds of Boston butt for the tamales de puerco; a whole chicken for chicken tamales; and piloncillo, brown sugar, golden raisins, and candied cherries for sweet tamales.

In the produce department we found tamal-making kits, packages with ingredients to make four dozen tamales. We planned to make 10 to 12 dozen. Some quick figuring based on the kit's instructions told us what we would need. An inventory of our shopping cart showed that we were pretty much on target -- our initial planning was sound.

So, yes, we were winging it. But it felt right, going on intuition. I would even say that we were letting the spirits of Domitila and Alfredo Porras and María Moore guide our hand, through our parents' advice and what we remembered of the tamales of our childhood (and though maybe we cheated slightly, Bolner's Spice Company only comfirmed our gut instincts).

The Big Day

Saturday started chilly and early. By 8 a .m., the pork was simmering with onion and garlic and the hojas were soaking. Over barbacoa taquitos from Adelita's (mmm!), we discussed strategy. Another shopping expedition was necessary. We still needed a couple of pots to steam the tamales, as well as drinks and snacks to tide everyone over while the tamales cooked. Family would arrive soon.

This time we went to the HEB at West Avenue and Frederickburg. There we found exactly what we were looking for: large aluminum steamer pots made especially for tamales. We took two. We lacked one last thing: a covering for the table. On one more shopping trip, this time to Wal-Mart, I found a plastic drop sheet in the paint department that would serve.

Back at the house, we cleaned the seeds out of the chiles, then set them to simmer with more onion and garlic. The pork was ready by then. At the dining room table, Pat, Aunt Minerva, Aunt Baby, and I shredded the meat, separating out the fat and gristle. The pork was so tender it came apart easily. And of course, we had to taste-test it.

We had to taste-test the chiles as well as they neared completion. Not enough punch at first. Adding a few chiles de arbol made the sauce too picoso. Pat spooned through the pot and removed them. Now too bitter. We added some sugar to cut the bitterness. Almost there. Something was missing, but we figured the pork would give the taste we were looking for, the taste we remembered.

The straining of the chiles presented a problem. We found two small sifters in the pantry, but the mesh in both was too large. Too much pulp came through. Would a piece of muslin work? It did, beautifully; though the process took time, squeezing small amounts of the chile mixture through the cloth, the result was a silky smooth sauce. Pat kept the small lumps of chile pulp to use in her cooking at home.

We mixed some sauce with a bit of meat, but another taste test disappointed. Something was still missing. What was it? But the combination of pork, chile, and spices revealed what the mix might need, like negative space with a familiar shape in a photo or painting.

I made a quick run to the La Fiesta Market a couple of blocks away on Blanco and found the last piece of the puzzle: packets of chili powder. Sitting in the produce department. In a display of ingredients for tamales.

Bingo.

We added some powder to the sample mix and made another round of taste tests. We all agreed: we had it!

 

Masa Man

As if on cue, family began arriving: Mom and Dad, up from Laredo with my sister Diana and eight-month-old baby Rachel, who were visiting from Bentonville, Arkansas (Diana's husband Scott would join us later in the week), Pat's sister Marisa and her friend Beth, Gaby and Anais. A little later we were joined by my older cousins, Angela and her husband James, Annette and her daughters Claire and Catherine, and Cindy, her husband Daryl, and their three-year-old daughter Alexis. My brothers Sam and Marc would drive in later in the evening, Sam from Austin when he got out of work, and Marc on his way from Edinburg.

By the time everyone had settled in and caught up with each other, the meat was ready. We drained the juices, which were a part of the next big step: making the masa.

We spread the plastic sheet over the dining room table, brought over the masa, lard, and pork juice, and I got to work. Mixing lard into the dough a handful at a time, together with the juice to add more flavor, I kneaded the masa, flattening it out and folding it back in on itself, each addition of ingredients making it more pliable and fragrant. It wasn't easy; soon my forehead was damp from sweat, trickles running into my eyes. I asked Beth and Pat for some help. Laughing and comparing this to surgery, they patted my face with a paper towel when I got too wet.

In the middle stretch of kneading, smears of masa on my shirt and drying on my fingers, my back, shoulders, and forearms aching from the exertion of mixing everything well, I had the random thought, "Am I doing this right? Grandma? Grandpa?" And I knew that Grandma would have answered, "Oh yes," like she did with a smile when we were children and would ask her something, knowing that even if things weren't perfect, it was us, and that made things perfectly fine with her. So our efforts today would be worth something, if only because we had attempted this.

I asked Pat if she thought the masa was ready, and she wasn't sure. She called her mom over. Aunt Minerva brought a butter knife and scooped up some dough. It came away smoothly from the mound on the table. "Oh, yeah," she said. "It's ready." Dad came over to inspect the results and he agreed.

On to the sweet tamales. All the ingredients were added directly to a fresh batch of masa. These tamales had no filling, simply the dough itself filled with dried fruits and the sugar and boiled-down piloncillo liquid to add sweetness.

I got my teenaged cousins Catherine and Claire into the act. They were having fun watching, but as this masa was more sticky, the plastic sheet bunched up as I kneaded. To get the girls involved, but also because I genuinely needed the help, I asked them to stand at either end of the table and pull their sides of the sheet toward them, to keep the surface flat. I think they had more fun than just being spectators.

 

¡A Embarrar!

The masas were ready. I spooned the meat into three large bowls and placed them on the table. Mom, Aunt Minerva, and Aunt Baby brought knives to spread the masa on the hojas and spoons to fill the tamales with meat.

I took a break now. My part of the job was done. Time for everyone else to join in.

Parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers gathered at the table. Laughter and the smell of food filled the house. We were all in good spirits, not only from each other's company, but also because we were picking up with love and respect something that had been laid aside for a time, something that had been a treasured part of life in this house for the past 50 years. We could feel the significance of taking the place of older generations, and doing it with the joy of being together.

"All of my aunts would come over to the house when we were children, every year till they all passed away and it was just Mama and Daddy and Grandma," recalled Mom. "Dad would do the masa. But once Mama got older we didn't make them any more."

And so we were making tamales for Christmas once again, something our parents hadn't done since they were about our age now.

"When we were teenagers we were never able to leave the house on Christmas Eve or New Year's Eve, we had to stay home and help with the tamales," said Mom. "Mama wouldn't let us go out until we finished. So our boyfriends -- your father and uncle -- would come over, and they would bring their guitars, and we would sing while we would do the embarrada of the hojas. And it was the same every year until we got married, and even then we would come over with the children."

That was how Aunt Minerva could tell the masa was ready, with the knife trick earlier. "We knew," she said with a smile. "We learned exactly when it was ready, to know how long it was until we were able to go out."

The mound of masa and bowlfuls of meat shrank as the platefuls of tamales grew. We placed them in the pots and set them to cook. As evening darkened we passed the time talking and laughing till the familiar aroma signalled they were almost done.

Now, this next may sound a little strange, and possibly laughable, but even if there is a reasonable explanation for what happened, I choose to entertain the more improbable option. We all did.

Pat went to check the tamales, and found the stove had been turned off. No one had left the table or living room. Our first thought and the next thing somebody said: "It was Grandma!"

"I know it had to be her spirit telling us the tamales were ready," said Aunt Minerva later. "I believe it was Mom telling us, ‘Ya los tamales estan cocidos.'"

The tamales were ready, whatever the case may be.

Now was the moment of truth. Time to see how well our experiment had succeeded. We were in a silly and celebratory mood now. I was at the table, and with ceremonial flourish, Pat set in front of me a fork and plate with one tamal on it. Everyone gathered around. I unwrapped the tamal and cut it in half. Dad took a picture as delicious-smelling steam rose into the air. With much melodrama, I announced, "Now to taste the fruits of our labor!" And so I did. It was a tamal, no doubt about that. Not bad. It wasn't the best-tasting ever, but it was really pretty good for our first attempt. Now we could all agree with confidence and anticipation that this was something we would do again next year. We had revived a family holiday tradition.

"That was Christmas," said Mom. "You had to have tamales. Then at 12 o'clock, we'd sit down and have coffee and tamales, and talk about the taste, and whether we liked them or not." And that's what we did, though it was earlier than midnight.

The Point

Later, Pat and I took a break from the kitchen and sat outside on the back porch. The cold December night was invigorating. "Well, we did it," I said. "I guess this makes us padrinos of the tamalada from now on." But that was okay. We knew now what to do, and we could carry this on, fine-tuning as we went.

Pat later explained why she herself wanted to do this. "Making the tamales is something that I relate to Granny," she said. "I wanted to get close to her and Grandpa in some way. I also wanted the new generations in the family to experience it. I also like so much that fact that Grandpa was the strength behind the task. Seeing him in the kitchen with his apron and Grandma regañando, ‘Ay, Fred . . . this or that.' I remember their relationship in that way during Christmas, really together."

Learning was one of the important reasons why she wanted to go through with the tamalada. "Learning how to do it and having the house full of family and the scent of chile and corn husk in the vapor," she said. "For the young ones to realize that as a family we have traditions and that there is much more to Christmas than presents under the tree. I loved it. I want it to take on a life where we will have that event for us to see each other. It will not be the last one, I predict."

For our parents, that day had special significance, strengthening what they remembered.

"I know that everyone who was here enjoyed our get-together," said Aunt Minerva. "It would be very easy to say, ‘Let's forget about doing this, let's just remember the past.' That's not good enough. What we do today is what will be remembered in the past for those of the family who are left. Keeping these family traditions alive is very important, for all of us and those to come -- our little ones who are just beginning to feel what it is to belong to a real family. I loved having it here at home. It was almost like Mom was here. So many things have happened since the last time we did make tamales here at home. It was time for us to get together, to see what is really important, our family and the fact that there will always be a place for us to be together. God bless my mom, that is what she instilled in us."

"After the grandparents departed we kind of forgot about all those nights," said Dad. "With Grandpa making the masa and Grandma cooking, and all the aunts and uncles there. Everything came to life and the memories of those days were revived. It was very refreshing to do this. By getting everybody's input, we were able to get some really good-tasting tamales. And from here on it will be an annual event, which I think will bring the family closer."

"It brought back a lot of memories, with the children of the aunts and uncles who used to be there," said Mom. "It brought together all the aunts who are still alive -- our generation -- and the children of our sister who passed away. It was a renewal of the things we used to do."