Once upon a time in my family, the Saturday after Thanksgiving was the start of our annual tamalada, our big tamale-making party. We made batches and batches of Mexico’s favorite comfort food to share with friends and neighbors for Christmas.
Preparation began with Daddy and the cleaning of the corn husks, or hojas. Nobody was allowed to touch the hojas until they met with Daddy’s approval.
First he pulled off all the stubborn corn silks that still clung to the packaged husks. Then he boiled them and left them to soak overnight. No husk passed inspection without being soft and supple enough for folding.
The next day, the rest of us got to work. My brothers and uncles were on hand for cleanup duty. And there was much to clean up as we women prepared the masa, a dough made of corn. We also prepared the meat for the filling.
The masa had to be spread evenly across the husk, and each tamale folded carefully so it would not split open during steaming.
According to long-standing tradition—at least in my West Texas family—no one was allowed to leave the kitchen during the steaming. This could ruin the process. No one wanted a bad batch of tamales on their conscience!
I thought the family tamalada would go on forever, but to continue a family tradition, you needed to have family. Mine had changed irrevocably. My father, two of my brothers and my uncle died in a short span of time. Mom and I spent months in a state of stunned loss.
At Christmas friends asked, “Are we going to get tamales this year?” Passing tamales out to friends was one of the great joys of the season, after all. But we couldn’t face it. Eventually, as the years went by, people stopped asking.
One afternoon, just before Thanksgiving, my mother and I pushed an empty shopping cart through the supermarket. I rounded the corner into the next aisle and found her standing in front of a display: packages of masa, bags of corn husks, dried spices—all the ingredients for a perfect tamale. “It’s time,” Mom said.
I knew she was right. We set aside a Saturday to spend in the kitchen. It wasn’t the boisterous, crowded tamalada of years past, just the two of us, alone with our thoughts. But as we laid everything out I fell into the old routine, except now we were cleaning up after ourselves as we went along.
When the masa and meat filling was just right to the taste, we reached for the—
“¿Y las hojas?” Mom asked. “Where are the corn husks?”
There they were, still sitting on the counter in the bag we’d brought home from the store. But of course Daddy wasn’t there to deal with them, and Mom and I hadn’t touched them! They hadn’t been cleaned, they hadn’t been soaked. “Oh, no!” I said.
Maybe the forgotten hojas were a sign that Mom and I could never recapture the past. Perhaps we were wasting our time.
Mom lit the burner under a pot for the hojas. Looking into the water, she said, “I remember every year of our family tamalada, going back to before you were born. I wish I knew how many tamales this family has made!”
“Remember the year they would not cook evenly?” I asked.
Mom sucked in her breath. “What a total disaster!”
I could still recall that terrible moment when we discovered the tamales were mushy in the middle. The kitchen grew quiet. Everyone looked to see if all family members could be accounted for.
“You know why it happened,” Mom said. I nodded. Surely somebody had snuck away during the steaming.
“I still think it was Edgar,” I said, referring to my brother. “But he claimed it was Homero.”
“And your father blamed your uncle Speedy,” said Mom. We couldn’t help but laugh, remembering everyone swearing up and down they would never break such an important custom and risk ruining the tamales. That story led to more old stories about family we’d lost, and family we just didn’t see often enough.
By the next morning the hojas were perfect—even by Daddy’s standards. Mom lit a candle for our relatives in heaven and we got to work filling and folding the tamales. Neither of us stepped foot out of the busy kitchen until the steaming was complete.
By the end of the day, we had platefuls of beautiful tamales to share. Mom and I pronounced our tamalada a success, full of loving memories from the past and hopeful wishes for tomorrow.
You can be sure we are preparing for this year’s tamalada and our kitchen will be crowded once again. My grandniece wants to learn the family tradition. Rule number one: No one leaves the kitchen during the steaming!
Life may change, but our family is forever bound together. By love, memories and our favorite Christmas dish.
Try Bernice and Paz’s classic tamale recipe for yourself!
