No Work = No Tamales

I won't go. No one expects me to go. Psh, they don't need me. I'm a kid. I don't make tamales...I eat them. Two extra hours of sleep look so good as I hit the snooze button. I have to get up. I have to go. No work = No tamales.

I get there and all of the Tias are shocked and I think Grandma might have gotten a little weepy. I hear one say that I'm a gift from Heaven...but we all knew this. I have a cup of coffee, oh the nectar of the gods, and we get started.

Tia Ana picks up a small corn husk for me to start out with. I'm reminded of when I was younger and making tortillas with Grandma. She'd give me a rolled up ball of dough. Smaller than hers. I'd roll it out and the result would be a tortilla half the size of hers and Grandpa's. That one was mine. Tia Ana tells me to feel for the smooth side. That's the side I put the masa on. Smooth side? There's supposed to be a smooth side? They both feel rough to me. I act like I know what I'm doing. Oh, right, the smooth side. I dip my spoon into the masa and scoop some out with the outer of my spoon and shmear it on the husk. Tia Ana says I'm doing a good job. I'm left on my own while the aunts greet my Tia Emma as she walks in. Let's not leave Ang alone with the masa and husks because, yes, I did do a good job on the first, but the third I shmeared upside down. I'll take that one, Family.

I'm considered an "embarrada" so I'm putting the masa on the husk, only Grandma and Tia Ana can put the meat onto the masa. Supposedly one must work up to having that job.

I'm there for almost two hours and within that frame the Tias are shelling out probably three to my one. Their hands are like easels, the husk-their canvas, the masa-their paints, the spoon-their brush, my Tias-the artists. They scoop up the exact amount of masa they need. No more, no less. They work in long strokes to distribute the paint evenly on the husk. Both hands gentle enough so as not to tear the husk, yet forceful enough to get the job done quickly...and don't skip a beat when it comes to gossiping. By the way, I have now figured out where I have gotten my gossip gene from. Gracias Castros.

With my grandma, her three sisters, my Tia Emma, and myself, we have three generations of femails around a table. I try to keep up with their work and I try to understand their words, but I can only do one thing at a time. I try to listen to them talk about other people and I end up "embarrar"-ing my hand. (Yeah, that's a word!)

It was great, up next, as soon as I get a day off I'll help Grandma with "emapanadas" (sp?) Don't be jealous of my mad mexican cookin' skillz