By Benita Zepeda –

It was probably the most confusing, exhilarating, and fascinating moments I had ever experienced in the unfamiliar world of the kitchen. I was never one that could be found spending my time there. Mi madre, mis abuelos, and even mi padre were culinary innovators, but some how that gene skipped my generation since my brother and I lack in cooking skills.

One summer week when I was 14, mi abuela was coming in from Colorado to visit for a week. I always looked forward to those visits because I only got to see her maybe once a year since she lived so far away. I would never have time to visit them because mis padres always worked and couldn’t find the time off work. This disconnect from the side of my family that lives in Colorado is one reason why I have felt distant from different aspects of my Mexican culture.

That created another reason why I love seeing mis abuelos. I got to see a side of me that I don’t necessarily get to explore day to day.

Mi abuela is very pretty at her age. She stands 5 feet tall and has the most petite hands and feet I have ever seen. She is so tiny, but yet so strong. The first day she arrived, she said we were going to make tamales. I casually let out a laugh because the entire family knows that I am not a fan of cooking. When I saw her intense look of pure seriousness, I knew that this was no laughing matter. I was about to, quite possibly, make the worst tamales in the history of the food.

We went to el supermercado on Main St. in my tiny hometown of Island Lake, Illinois.  Even though she had never been there before, mi abuela navigated the aisles with such ease. She was on a mission and knew exactly what we needed to purchase. We got masa, corn husks, beef, and various chiles and spices. The entire time we were there, I was getting a lesson on the proper way to make great tamales.

Only problem with that lesson was the fact that she would only tell me en español. She was always upset that I wasn’t fluent in the language, and as either encouragement, or punishment, she would often speak to me in what should have been my native tongue.

When we arrived back to the house, I had figured out that I didn’t just combine the ingredients to make tamales. I had to make them with extreme care. She told me that excellent tamales have no recipe, but it they are made with knowledge and appreciation.

It is the slight imperfections (aside from overcooking them) that make them authentic.

My first tamale was a disaster. I had no idea how much masa I needed to spread out on the corn husk. It was a challenge that mi abuela made clear that I needed to overcome just by one glance from her eyes. I had put the meat in the middle of the tamale, and by one little sigh from her, I knew that I had placed too much. The last task was to fold them. This part, I thought, was going to be the easiest. I had no idea there was such an art to keeping them folded neatly together.

“Mira, take the husk in the palm of your hand,” she explained.  “Take care in spreading the masa.  Find the right amount like this.”

She showed me the perfect amount of masa for tamales.

“Now folding,” she said with a smile on her face, “is like keeping the baby warm in a blanket.”

I remember how she said that to me, and I could picture exactly what she meant.  She folded the end up, then rolled the husk over, and finished by tucking the other end up to complete the fold.  She placed the constructed tamale onto the table, looked over her shoulder and said, “Now your turn.”

I would be lying if I said I didn’t observe more than I practiced, but I remember thinking how natural and beautiful she looked while carefully spreading the masa, putting in the perfect amount of meat, and sharing her knowledge about the craft. Little did I know that day I was learning more than how to construct a tamale.

I learned that day more about my familial roots than I had ever before. Just cooking tamales with mi abuela taught me more about who she was and what made being a Zepeda unique from anyone else. She told me even though she wanted to instill more Mexican values in my life, it was the mix between my cultures that makes me the way I am. Just like the slight differences in the tamales. Even though they aren’t all the same, and some aspects could be considered imperfect to some people, it doesn’t mean they are less desired or valuable.

By the end of the day, I surprisingly succeeded in my quest to make tamales. This feat was one that could not have been conquered without mi abuela. Later, we ate what seemed to be the perfect dinner, and not just because of the food, but because of the company.

With our new understanding, mi familia bonded in a way that we never really had before. We understood more about each other, and that is the reason tamales will forever remind me of that confusing, exhilarating, and fascinating experience, and the amazing woman that taught me more than just a recipe that day.