Abuela's Tamales

The streets are crowded. This is the first time I have been in my Abuela's food stall at night time. It is really busy. The streets are lit with glowing pink and yellow lanterns, and people bustle by, hoping to buy and eat some of my Abuela's famous tamales before she sells out for the night. My family's little food stall, the Especia de la Calle is crowded with people. My Mama is making the filling for the tamales in a large frying pan over an open flame, mixing the shredded chicken, beans, red chilli and pork with a large spoon until the mozzarella cheese melts in while my Abuela makes the corn-based masa dough in the biggest metal bowl I have ever seen. She is churning the lard and corn mixture with that old arm of hers, and even though she looks fragile and bony, she is still passionate about food. Papa has me sitting on a stool in the corner of the stall, trying to get me to help fold the masa dough in the soft corn husks he soaked earlier. It is confusing, so I just tie them up with string and put them on little paper plates and sprinkle them with a tomato, onion and cucumber mix. It's cold outside, but with the burning open flames from all of the stalls, the body heat of all the people and the fast movement of arms and legs in the kitchen, I'm warm. I'm actually sweating. My head trickles with sweat and I wonder for a moment how my Abuela does this every night. She wakes up at 5:00am to gather her ingredients, and sometimes I go to the market with her. Then she prepares everything and sets up the stall. Then, she cooks.

I am getting hungry. The scent of tamales is making my stomach rumble. I tie a tamale up with string and place it on a plate.

"Keep going, Luna. The people won't wait much longer! Do you want your Abuela's stall to keep its customers?" Papa's voice is firm. I knew he was only raising his voice because it was getting later and food was selling out, but I nodded and responded with a loud breath,

"Yes, Papa."

My hands are burning. The mixture from inside the corn husks is burning my fingers. My hands are red from the heat, and how quickly I am tying up the tamales with string and sprinkling them with the tomato, onion and cucumber mixture. My eyes are lazily drifting away from what I'm doing, and I just want to eat. I'm bored and hungry and I don't want to be a part of this food stall anymore. Even though it sounds dramatic, I just want to go home.

This is the last batch. I tie up the string and place the tamales on a plate before sliding them onto the counter where papa takes the money from a customer. The street has quieted down now, and only few groups of people still wander around. Most stalls are packing up, ready to go home. Abuela is still making one last batch of corn dough, but I wonder who for because no one is waiting at the counter. She turns to me, her small blue eyes tired and droopy. "Well done, mi nieta."

"Thank you, Abuela," I say, passing her the bowl that was filled with the masa dough and shredded chicken. She shakes her head and puts more dough in the bowl with her big metal spoon. I sigh. She wants me to make more tamales. I take the bowl back and place a soaked corn husk on my lap, rolling the masa dough into small balls in the palms of my hands. It is hot. Abuela clicks her tongue and points at me with her wrinkly pointer finger.

"Now, te haces un tamal, Luna."

'Make a tamale for yourself, Luna' she said. I smile at her, folding the corn husk and tying it with a piece of string. She had never let me try one of her tamales. She insisted that if anyone from the family had one, it would waste the masa dough and shredded chicken. We don't have much money to buy the ingredients from the early morning market, so she insists we use everything for the customers, so we get paid more for the next day. I place the tamale on my small paper plate, and with a plastic knife and fork, I pull the corn husk back and shovel a spoonful of the tamale into my mouth, along with the tomato, onion and cucumber. It is spicy and warm, savoury, filling and delicious. The melted cheese is stringy and hot. Now I understand why so many people come to the Especia de la Calle. This is why Abuela cooks. This is why my family cooks. The food is why.

Twenty years later and I'm still going. The stall is still running on the same lantern-lit street. The same customers come and order the same thing, shredded chicken tamales. The same familiar smells, the same noises, mama, papa and even my children are here. It's early in the night, and I am just setting up. I pull the safety gates aside and get out Abuela's big masa dough bowl. I scrub the benches and carry the ingredients from our house to the stall. I talk to Abuela's photo. She is still in this stall, even if she isn't really there in person. I kiss my finger and press it to her photo before I start to work. When I was thirteen, I never thought I would be doing this, and yet, here I am.

Mama is making the filling in her frying pan, just like she has always done. Papa is taking orders and soaking corn husks. My cousins are washing dishes. I am making the masa corn dough with Abuela's big spoon. It is hot, and my black hair is sticking to my sweaty cheeks, but I keep going. In the corner of my eye, I see my daughter, Carmen, sitting on a stool in the corner, tying the tamales with string. The same job I had when I was her age. I put the spoon down and walk over to her, bend down on my knees and put my hands on her lap. She fake-smiles, her freckles spreading wide over her nose. "Can we go home yet, mama? Por favor," She asks, handing me one tamale on a paper plate. I shake my head and put the paper plate on the counter.

"You keep tying those tamales with string. We do it for this family. I know it might seem hard and boring, but It will change your life. It really will."

She rolls her big hazel eyes and I turn back to my masa dough. I keep mixing, occasionally checking back on Carmen. She is doing a better job than I ever did. Even though street food is made by poor people, in small stalls on loud crowded streets, it will change your life. It changed mine.