Hey. I just ate 6 fresh, hot flour tortillas straight from the woman who just opened a tiny tortilla shop nearby. And I ate them really fast, while making noises reminisce of a baby calf nursing. Because THERE IS NOTHING BETTER IN THIS WORLD THAN FRESH FLOUR TORTILLAS. Wrapped around some meat and cheese product is pretty good. But they are best with about a stick of butter, and some coarse sea salt.
So now I feel rather ill.
But it was so worth it! Back in the day, the day when I was a ramblin’, backpacking groovy kinda chick, hanging out at Mayan ruins in southern Mexico with nefarious characters, my main mission was to locate the best tortilla maker in the vicinity. When I found her (and it was always a woman, I never saw a guy make tortillas…muy mal!), I pretty much set up camp in her front yard with the chickens and waited for her to get to it. In southern Mexico, it was always corn tortillas, never, ever flour. Flour tortillas are pretty much a northern Mexico, south Texas thing. Whenever I would ask the tortilla lady if she could make flour tortillas, she gave me a look like I had just asked her to fry up her first born. I loved the corn tortillas….they were very small, thin, and sublime. I could eat a dozen at a time, no problem. I was hypnotized (or possibly a little dazed by the latest remedy for diarrhea from the Pharmacia) by the rhythmic slapping of the tortillas between her hands, then watching her quickly cook them, flipping them deftly with just one finger …there were no fancy tortilla presses, or spatulas. It remains, to me, the finest display of culinary skill I have ever seen.
But being from Arizona, I grew up gnawing on flour tortillas, (seriously, my Mom gave them to us when we were teething as babies!) and they remain my favorite. And when I can find someone who knows what they’re doing, I become an addict. I’ve made lots of my own over the years, some of the results pretty dang good. But nothing compares to the genetic wonderment and magic that flows from the hands of an accomplished Mexican woman (usually somewhere over the age of 102, with 3 dogs that hate me). Who refuses to speak English (even though she knows exactly what I’m asking for), slaps a warm dozen tortillas into a plastic bag, closing the bag with a twist that would snap the antenna off a border patrol truck, and barks the price in Spanish. And she has no change. Too bad for you, gringa! I pay up timidly, bowing all the way out of the tiny store. Once in the car, I can’t wait, and fold one into fourths, cramming it in my mouth. Ah, yes….the warm taste of flour, lard, ancient fry pans, salt, some sort of earthy slick, summer monsoons, and heaven.
The second tortilla was wrapped around a mix of ground venison, cilantro, jalapeno-smoked chorizo sausage, tomatillo salsa and Cotija cheese.
The third tortilla was buttered up and salted.
The fourth and fifth, with a little honey
The sixth is sitting here with me now – I’m tearing bits off as I type.
Yeah, I’m feeling pretty disgustingly full.
I hope somewhere, somehow, in some tiny tortilla shop next to a mercado selling beer and cashing checks, some wonderful tortilla lady will give you just that feeling.
So now I feel rather ill.
But it was so worth it! Back in the day, the day when I was a ramblin’, backpacking groovy kinda chick, hanging out at Mayan ruins in southern Mexico with nefarious characters, my main mission was to locate the best tortilla maker in the vicinity. When I found her (and it was always a woman, I never saw a guy make tortillas…muy mal!), I pretty much set up camp in her front yard with the chickens and waited for her to get to it. In southern Mexico, it was always corn tortillas, never, ever flour. Flour tortillas are pretty much a northern Mexico, south Texas thing. Whenever I would ask the tortilla lady if she could make flour tortillas, she gave me a look like I had just asked her to fry up her first born. I loved the corn tortillas….they were very small, thin, and sublime. I could eat a dozen at a time, no problem. I was hypnotized (or possibly a little dazed by the latest remedy for diarrhea from the Pharmacia) by the rhythmic slapping of the tortillas between her hands, then watching her quickly cook them, flipping them deftly with just one finger …there were no fancy tortilla presses, or spatulas. It remains, to me, the finest display of culinary skill I have ever seen.
But being from Arizona, I grew up gnawing on flour tortillas, (seriously, my Mom gave them to us when we were teething as babies!) and they remain my favorite. And when I can find someone who knows what they’re doing, I become an addict. I’ve made lots of my own over the years, some of the results pretty dang good. But nothing compares to the genetic wonderment and magic that flows from the hands of an accomplished Mexican woman (usually somewhere over the age of 102, with 3 dogs that hate me). Who refuses to speak English (even though she knows exactly what I’m asking for), slaps a warm dozen tortillas into a plastic bag, closing the bag with a twist that would snap the antenna off a border patrol truck, and barks the price in Spanish. And she has no change. Too bad for you, gringa! I pay up timidly, bowing all the way out of the tiny store. Once in the car, I can’t wait, and fold one into fourths, cramming it in my mouth. Ah, yes….the warm taste of flour, lard, ancient fry pans, salt, some sort of earthy slick, summer monsoons, and heaven.
The second tortilla was wrapped around a mix of ground venison, cilantro, jalapeno-smoked chorizo sausage, tomatillo salsa and Cotija cheese.
The third tortilla was buttered up and salted.
The fourth and fifth, with a little honey
The sixth is sitting here with me now – I’m tearing bits off as I type.
Yeah, I’m feeling pretty disgustingly full.
I hope somewhere, somehow, in some tiny tortilla shop next to a mercado selling beer and cashing checks, some wonderful tortilla lady will give you just that feeling.
