The holidays mean many things to many people. However, I
believe that regardless of faith (or lack thereof), ethnicity, or background,
everyone enjoys getting together with friends (and for some, family) over good
food. Last Sunday was the annual tamale making party hosted by a dear friend of
mine. Food forward friends came, arms full of margarita making concoctions and
sumptuous sides.
The real work had been done in advance by the hostess, a
pulled pork in chile sauce ready to go. Having dawned her apron and rolled up
her sleeves, she dove in, elbows deep into corn masa. This particular variety
is made from hominy, mixed with an alkaline solution, cooked, steeped, washed,
then ground (thanks Wikipedia). I poured the brown/red juices into the
white/yellow meal, gradually thinning the paste. With a hypnotic repetition of
mixing, the masa took on a pinkish hue and a smoky smell. With a taste, a
satisfied chef summoned the cooking compatriots, lining us up to fill the
husks.
Spatulas slapped masa into the dried corn case, spreading
the paste to the edges, leaving enough room for the fold. These were handed
down to the fillers, adding a dollop of the chile infused pork, another pass
added an olive, and the final station folded and placed the resulting packing
into the steamer basket. The whole while, margaritas and wine glasses were
refilled, jokes were made, and artificially heavy critiques on “proper form”
were given.
Like a Japanese rice ball, we unwrapped the leaves, steam
wafting up from the now cooked tamales. The aroma of corn mixed with the spices from the peppers and the
robustness of the meat. The masa had firmed, but was still soft, providing a
creamy background that matched the shredded pork.
The comradery continued, even into cleanup as guests left
with a few extra tamales of their own, another part of our gracious hostesses’
tradition.
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