The Tortilla

Stacy Newvine
The Tortilla
My childhood revolved around the consumption
and creation of food more than the average person. My
existence would not have come to pass had it not been for
a family bakery that brought my maternal grandparents
together over 60 years ago. Growing up, my mother
owned and operated restaurants and one catering business.
When I was in high school, she took a job at the very same
bakery her parents were acquainted with all those years
ago. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of my
mother and grandmother cooking up something tasty to
eat. My all-time favorite food they have made for me are
tortillas.
I cannot begin to explain how many times I have
tried to recreate their tortilla recipe and have failed
completely. This absolutely devastates me because I pride
myself on being a decent cook. In fact, up until recently, I
aspired to be a classically trained chef. I can whip up a
delicious quiche, braised short ribs, even a delightful
crawfish étouffée, but ask me to make tortillas and I
guarantee you will be disappointed. It’s fair to say that
tortillas are my culinary Achilles’ heel. I often feel like a
disgrace to my Mexican heritage with every bastard tortilla
I produce.
I remember gathering around the kitchen table
with my sisters and cousins, patiently waiting for the first
tortilla to come off the skillet. That first one was usually
reserved for my grandmother, because she did make it
after all. If we were lucky enough, we were allowed to
help roll out the dough. Grandma Santitos always rolled
out a perfect disc-like tortilla, but mine always turned out
like the shape of Alaska. She would praise us for rolling
the dough out so well, but I now know that she was just
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eing nice, as grandmothers often are. After she
consumed the first tortilla, it was fair game for the rest of
us. We would line up the butter, strawberry jelly, and
apple butter in a row and prepare ourselves for the little
slice of heaven that awaited us. Each tortilla would come
off the stove piping hot, but that didn’t stop any of us
from shoving it into our mouths. I always thought they
tasted the best if they burned your esophagus on the way
down. She could not make them fast enough.
As I begin to recreate this recipe, my own children
curiously watch. The boys help me measure out the
ingredients and a cloud of flour fills the kitchen. If I close
my eyes and take a deep breath, it feels like my mom is
here with me. I fill my palm with about a teaspoon of salt,
just as my mother does and toss it into the flour mixture. I
add lukewarm water and a few dollops of shortening into
the flour. At first, the consistency feels squishy, like Jell-
O. As I continue to add the flour it starts to feel more like
Play-Doh. The dough smells like it should and it tastes
like it should, but I’m not convinced that it’ll cook
properly. Unfortunately, for me, they never cook quite
right. I let my son butter the bottom of a bowl before I
put the dough in it to rest and rise. Half an hour passes
and the dough looks like a dome on the top of an igloo,
round and white. I found a cast iron skillet that looks just
like the one my mom has and I turn the heat on mediumhigh.
I pull the dough apart and roll little balls in between
my hands. I dust my large pastry board and rolling pin and
attempt to roll out a perfect circle and succeed. I’ll take
my small victories as they come. I repeat the last step until
every piece of dough is rolled flat.
The time has come to face my fears. I know the
pan is perfectly preheated because droplets of water
immediately evaporate as soon as they hit the skillet. The
first tortilla goes on and I can only hope it will turn out
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just right. Not even a minute passes before I flip it over to
cook on the other side. My emotions are suddenly
transported back to my child-like self, eagerly waiting for
the first tortilla to be done. I pace back and forth in front
of the stove, giving the tortilla a little pep talk. “You will
be great,” I say. My kids roll their eyes because their crazy
mom is talking to the food again, but little do they know
my pride is at stake here. The moment of truth has arrived
and I take the tortilla off the stove. The steam that
envelops around reminds me of inside of a sauna. I take
my first bite and all I feel is pure joy radiating from within.
It smells and tastes just as I remember, but I’m not out of
the woods yet. The tortilla is a bit chewy. Perhaps I didn’t
roll it thin enough. I take my rolling pin and run it over
the next tortilla I plan to cook. As it cooks on the skillet I
decide to finish off the first tortilla I made, but something
is different. The texture quickly went from soft and chewy
to just a little bit crunchy. What did I do wrong? I take
the next one off the stove and the same thing happens
again, and again, and again. I can’t imagine why they
didn’t turn out so well. I followed my mother’s exact
instructions. I think I may have missed a step, so I call her
right up. After going over the instructions several times, it
seems I haven’t missed a beat.
I realize my food pales in comparison to that of
the matriarchs of my family. Although I have failed at yet
another attempt to recreate their delicious tortillas, I refuse
to give up trying to perfect this recipe. I want my kids to
experience that same sense of joy whenever they walk into
a warm kitchen. When my grandmother and mother are
long gone, I would like for them to live on through the
recipes they have passed on from generation to generation.
One day, I will finally make the perfect tortilla and I will
pass that recipe on to my children so that I too will live on
through my food.
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Christine Grimes
Out of the Blue
I was crossing the quad from my classroom to the
commons where I was struck in the face by an icy
snowball. The brute force of the blow came first, then the
air burning against cold skin as it sprayed across the side of
my cheek. I was pelted just below the eye, along my
cheekbone, but the frozen shock spread down my brow
down to the corners of my mouth. As I rubbed my eye, I
could feel my mascara smudge. I even brushed snow from
my collar bone. It was thrown with gleeful force, but
when I looked at the offending student, he stood aghast. I
could tell it was not intended for me. He had thrown
wide, perhaps, or his target had ducked, but I was not
meant to be recipient of the strike.
Somehow that always seems to happen to me.
The “I didn’t mean to hurt you, it has nothing to do with you”
lines. Yet, somehow, I am always the injured party. The
one with the ruddy bruising cheek, the one with child
support to pay, the one who throws a party for a friend
who does not show.
It had started with a small lob in the direction of
his friend, then escalated into a strike force maneuver.
Absorbed in their own little winter wonderland, they didn’t
imagine that I would cross the sidewalk perpendicular to
their fight at 11:13 in the morning. Never even crossed
their minds that someone else might be hurt in the
struggle, that someone else might be affected, that things
would happen that could not be undone. Who ever heard
of a woman that paid child support to her husband? A
daughter choosing a man to raise her over a woman.
“He’s normal,” she said. “He can give me a normal life.”
Is that Sunday football or eating out? What’s normal?
The boy who hefted the snowball in my direction
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mouths, “sorry”, and shrugs, then looks away. His friend
walks up and jostles him, teasing and pantomiming.
A cold trickle spills down my neckline where a
small piece of ice must have lodged. I will probably feel
frozen tendrils down my neck for a week, flinching as I
walk across this spot. Silly, perhaps, but these things stay
with you long after they should.
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