De Harina y Amor

Sweating and muttering to myself, I wonder what in the world compelled me to make tortillas today when I don’t have a tortilla press or a rolling pin. I am literally rolling out tortillas with a ceramic cup. Somehow  it’s working. My arms are killing me, this is hard work. I think of abuela.

One of my favorite memories of growing up in a house with my grandmother is watching her make flour tortillas. She made them often and I had the pleasure of watching her make them on weekend mornings. After so many years of making them, the movements were second nature to her.  Her movements were smooth, more muscle memory than anything. They flowed like a dance. 

There was a method to it. First adding the ingredients, correctly alternating between warm water and lard like a scientist until the right consistency was reached. She would do a little taste test with her finger to make sure the flavor was perfect. Then she would divide it and let the dough sit under a clean linen dish towel. Then it was time for my favorite part, because of the way she moved her hands to shape the little tortilla balls. Her hands formed a cup, with her thumbs in the middle, and she would gently but quickly maneuver her hands and thumbs to roll the dough clockwise, tucking the outsides to the inside before laying it to rest for a bit. 

She always saved a little dough to clean off her already clean wooden cutting board and wooden rolling pin. She was meticulous in making sure there wasn’t a single bit of dirt or old food in the crevices. I admired her fastidiousness. 

When it was time to roll out the dough, she would give my sister and I a little piece of it to practice with. 

I can still see the way her arms moved, strong and steady, rolling out the dough with the same rhythm every time. One hand held the pin, the other rolled and flipped the tortilla as she flattened the sometimes stubborn dough. If it was too sticky she added more flour. If it was too rubbery she added more lard. She didn’t need to think about it; her body just remembered. All the while she would talk to us about anything and everything. 

In the time it took us to flatten out our crooked little half moon pizzas she had rolled out 10 or 12 perfect circles. Then she’d feel the pan with her bare fingers to make sure it was hot enough I guess, and she’d start to cook the tortillas. We’d always laugh when they puffed up as she used her spatula to slap them back down. She’d cook ours last — fuzzies and all.

Then she’d take one of her perfect tortillas, spread butter on it, roll it up and hand it to us fresh and steaming. They were so soft and warm. She’d pour us a little coffee (with a lot of milk) and we’d sit down and enjoy it together.

The last time she made tortillas for us, she served them with spaghetti sauce. That was at the onset of her Dementia. The incident was confusing, but it never tarnished my memory of her doing something she loved: Making her family food.

Now when I make tortillas, I think of her mannerisms. I try to move the way she did, hoping that, with time, my own hands will remember too.