Narrative Essay On Tamale Making

I was 13 years old, my first year back in El Paso since my family moved away when I was four, the first year to join my larger family. It was the first time I was invited to the annual “tamalera,” the tamale-making party held on Christmas Eve. When my father first told me that I had to help my grandma make tamales, I was fairly indifferent. I responded with the normal, pre-teen apathy: “I guess.” Little did I know that tamale making would become such an important part of my life.

I arrived at my grandma’s house in bewilderment. The smell of flavored pork and freshly made red sauce wafted out of the windows and rose with the sound of laughter. The family was already there: all four of my aunts elbow deep into bowls of chicken, pork, sauces; my cousins and a couple of uncles with rolled up sleeves spreading

masa onto bare corn husks, all surrounding the kitchen; my dad and a couple of other uncles were cleaning pots and making more coffee and wassel. In the background, through the screen door sat my grandpa with all of my cousins under the “spreading age” (10), washing corn husks in the same metal bucket he has used for 50 years to wash husks in. They all welcomed me warmly and showed me a spot at the spreader’s table, joking that I have been promoted prematurely because I never washed husks. My uncle explained that they’ve bee¬¬¬¬n telling jokes and that this was the annual joke telling contest, but first I have to receive instructions.
Grandma emerged from the middle of kitchen where she has b¬¬¬¬een mixing boiling hot water and lard into the masa with her hands to tutor me in the art of spreading. Her voice like sandpaper, she rose like a giant among the others, and they all cleared a space for her. Being the mother of four boys, she knew how to make her presence larger and well-heard. She spoke to me in Spanish, which I didn’t understand, but she used over-sized gestures and pointed at the crudely made signs around the room. “Asi, Mely.” She said as she spread a corn husk on her left palm so that the widest part met her wrist. “Y asi” she scooped some masa with a spoon held in her right hand and ladled it with an exaggerated plop on the corn husk. “Y asi” – She skillfully spread the masa with a spoon onto the corn husk. My instruction complete, she handed me the spoon and grabbed my chin. Then she said with complete authority in a voice that crescendo-ed with warning, “Pero, no in reverse!” My family, which had been silently working as my lesson took place, erupted in laughter at this. “Not on the wrong side!” they explained. “She hates that. It makes the tamal stick.”
The joke telling contest resumed while I toiled at tamale making, rather unsuccessfully at first. I didn’t even speak the language. Jokes were told in Spanish around me, and I only knew the punch lines by the uproarious laughter. I was a stranger in a strange land, but for the first time I felt like I was part of a family . . . and they wanted my help. Spreading masa to the cadence of their laughter, I listened as each person took a turn on the comedy stand. Here and there, Grandma scolded me gratingly in Spanish for working on the wrong side, but she always did it with a smile. As the heat of steaming tamales filled the room, I relaxed into a feeling of wholeness that I never knew I didn’t have before.
When 6 hours had passed, we sat at the table and told stories about what happened to us during the year, about what we dreamed would happen. My dad interpreted for me while I brought a plate of the food we had made together. As I raised that first tamal into my mouth, I realized two things: 1) I didn’t really like tamales. 2) I loved helping make tamales. Family matters.
20 years later, my grandmother has passed away. Now, I teach my daughters how to make tamales in my kitchen with crudely made signs and invite my whole family to help. Ranchera music blasts in the background as we vote on the winner of this year’s “ugliest apron” contest, laugh, and pass the masa around.

I was 13 years old, my first year back in El Paso since my family moved away when I was four, the first year to join my larger family. It was the first time I was invited to the annual “tamalera,” the tamale making party held on Christmas Eve. When my father first told me that I had to help my grandma make tamales , I was fairly indifferent. I responded with the normal, pre-teen apathy: “I guess.” Little did I know that tamale making would become such an important part of my life.
I arrived at my grandma’s house in bewilderment. The smell of flavored pork and freshly made red sauce wafted out of the windows and rose with the sound of laughter. The family was already there: all four of my aunts elbow deep into bowls of chicken, pork, sauces; my cousins and a couple of uncles with rolled up sleeves spreading masa onto bare corn husks, all surrounding the kitchen; my dad and a couple of other uncles were cleaning pots and making more coffee and wassel. In the background, through the screen door sat my grandpa with all of my cousins under the “spreading age” (10), washing corn husks in the same metal bucket he has used for 50 years to wash husks in. They all welcomed me warmly and showed me a spot at the spreader’s table, joking that I have been promoted prematurely. My uncle explained that they’ve bee¬¬¬¬n telling jokes and that this was the annual joke telling contest, but first I have to receive instructions.
Grandma emerged from the middle of kitchen where she has b¬¬¬¬een mixing boiling hot water and lard into the masa with her hands to tutor me in the art of spreading.

Her voice like sandpaper, she rose like a giant among the others, and they all cleared a space for her. Being the mother of four boys, she knew how to make her presence larger and well-heard. She spoke to me in Spanish, which I didn’t understand, but she used over-sized gestures and pointed at the crudely made signs around the room. “Asi, Mely.” She said as she spread a corn husk on her left palm so that the widest part met her wrist. “Y asi” she scooped some masa with a spoon held in her right hand and ladled it with an exaggerated plop on the corn husk. “Y asi” – She skillfully spreads the masa with spoon onto the corn husk. My instruction complete, she handed me the spoon and grabbed my chin. Then she said with complete authority in a voice that crescendo-ed with warning, “Pero, no in reverse!” My family, which had been silently working as my lesson took place, erupted in laughter at this. “Not on the wrong side!” they explained. “She hates that. It makes the tamal

stick.”
The joke telling contest resumed while I toiled at tamale making, rather unsuccessfully at first. I didn’t even speak the language. Jokes were told in Spanish around me, and I only knew the punch lines by the uproarious laughter. I was a stranger in a strange land, but for the first time I felt like I was part of a family . . . and they wanted my help. Spreading masa to the cadence of their laughter, I listened as each person took a turn on the comedy stand. Here and there, Grandma scolded me gratingly in Spanish for working on the wrong side, but she always did it with a smile. As the heat of steaming tamales filled the room, I relaxed into a feeling of wholeness that I never knew I didn’t have before .
When 6 hours had passed, we sat at the table and told stories about what happened to us during the year, about what we dreamed would happen. My dad interpreted for me while I brought a plate of the food we had made together. As I raised that first tamal into my mouth, I realized two things: 1) I didn’t really like tamales. 2) I loved helping make tamales.
20 years later, my grandmother has passed away. Now, I teach my daughters how to make tamales in my kitchen with crudely made signs and invite my whole family to help. Ranchera music blasts in the background as we vote on the winner of this year’s “ugliest apron” contest, laugh, and pass the masa around.