<\/p>\n
Cooking is transformed when cooking for D\u00eda De Los Muertos. Traditionally, passed down from mother to daughter, with delicate visceral senses. A mundane habitual routine transformed into a ceremony as we share our favorite meal of our loved ones who\u2019ve crossed over into the land of the dead. We remember our roots and celebrate our heritage, the mnemonic device of cooking family recipe\u2014homemade tortillas.<\/span><\/p>\n My grandmother always stressed the importance of storytelling. The first step was to find a universal truth. One day, while grocery shopping, I noticed an aisle titled, \u201cMexican Food\u201d and I noted this as a potential candidate.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n D\u00eda De Los Muertos is not Halloween nor is it a ghost story.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n My grandmother would not allow me to transform our culture into an adaptation of Halloween. My intent is to tell a story for my children, nieces, and their children to remember their mothers on D\u00eda De Los Muertos.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Everyone Knows You Go Home<\/span><\/i> by Natalia Sylvester focuses on intergenerational trauma, and identity in relation to the tradition. This book reveals Halloween’s appropriation of our culture. Children whose parents have recently died from COVID are afraid of Halloween because they believe their parents are ghosts returning to haunt them. Sylvester writes in her book \u201cThe couple\u2019s smiles froze. It seemed to take an eternity for either of them to speak, and when they did, they had little more than mumbles\u201d (1).<\/span><\/p>\n My own children don\u2019t want to celebrate anymore. I take my girls to H-E-B, and they don\u2019t want to even look at Halloween decor.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The rise of appropriation of D\u00eda De Los Muertos on prominent display alongside Halloween merchandise in retail and grocery stores confuses my children and my nieces. And at this point, all the girls are afraid my sister will haunt them. These girls believe creating an altar will summon evil spirits to feast.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n My girlfriend recommends creating a cookbook of family recipes with their stories. She believes our tradition needs to be redefined as a festival of food and music, devoid of Halloween.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I think she\u2019s right.<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n Close your eyes, what single word comes to mind when you think of home? Was it the word \u201cfood\u201d? For mine, it is the smell of homemade flour tortillas. In my home, cooking tortillas is done in its minimalist form, engineered and perfected through tradition, no measuring, utensils, or a pan. Your hands are the measuring cup and the spatula.<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n When my sister, Stephanie died in 2019, it became my responsibility to teach my nieces to cook the meal for the altar.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n <\/p>\n On the first night of D\u00eda De Los Muertos, my family listens to music while cooking. We do this for two reasons. To celebrate our ancestors, honoring those who\u2019ve passed, and to feel connected to each other, the living and the dead. We\u2019ve been celebrating for as far back as I can remember. We may not have our own theme music like Halloween or Christmas yet, but that doesn\u2019t stop my father from celebrating with his favorite Vicente Fernandez record. While my mother begins with:\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMija,\u201d she says to my sister. \u201cTry to remember when I taught you to tie your shoe. Do you remember the story of bunny ears?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n We tell stories to help us remember.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cToday it is time I teach you how to make homemade tortillas and learn about your family roots.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n Early one morning during the Mexican civil war, Pancho Villa and his army were fighting in our hometown and our family restaurant was burned down. My great-grandfather decided to move the family to America. My grandmother, Amparo, watched her mother and father frantically pack clothes and food for the journey to the American border. Grandma Amparo and her parents took one final look at the mountain landscape before their long journey, seeking asylum in America during the Mexican Revolution.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you think Great Grandma Amparo packed for food?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cTortillas?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYes, of course tortillas mija. But what else did she pack?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n My sister, Stephanie was instructed to grab the all-purpose flour, salt, and baking powder from the pantry.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYour great grandmother packed flour, salt, and baking powder. We are still missing the secret ingredient for tortillas, but we don\u2019t need it until later.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n My mother instructs my sister, \u201cI want you to take two handfuls of flour and make a little mountain on the counter. This is the Jalisco landscape.\u201d She pauses for my sister to finish measuring about 4 cups of flour with her tiny hands.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNow, our mountain needs snow. I want you to fill the palm of your hand with baking powder and I want you to do this twice.\u201d My sister\u2019s palm looks about 1 \u00bd teaspoons full.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cGreat Job, mija!\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYour grandmother and her parents had to sleep outdoors in their clothes. Amparo wanted to go home.\u201d My mother gestures to my sister to do as she does and pours a little salt in the palm of her hand, about 1 teaspoon, and my sister does the same and they sprinkle the 2 teaspoons of salt over the mound of flour and baking powder.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n My grandmother, Amparo and her family arrived safely at the banks of the Rio Grande River where the community started banding together and combining resources to make a little city. There was music and food organized in Mercado Square, an outdoor farmer\u2019s market.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThere is no time for tears mijita because tomorrow is a new beginning. We are going to open a restaurant in America.\u201d Amparo promised not to cry anymore and ran to her mother who was cooking.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAh, mijita! Let\u2019s make this place feel like home. We are going to make Tortillas.\u201d Amparo held her mother\u2019s hand with white knuckled sweaty palms as they walked toward the sunset tent city, an evening landscape of music and food.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMijita, remember, the secret ingredient to making great tortillas is bacon grease.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n My mother reaches over to a ceramic lid just next to the stove and instructs my sister to take a handful of grease. Stephanie reluctantly dips her hand in the oozing glob of bacon grease that resembles 6 tablespoons.<\/span><\/p>\n My mother laughed at my sister\u2019s grimacing smile and said,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNow you know how your grandmother felt that night on the border.\u201d My mother instructs my sister to mix the handful of lard with the mountain of ingredients. Steph begins to fold the lard into the mix, kneading until the dough substance returns to powder form.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNow that our mountain is gone, we add water for new life and new beginnings. We shape our mountain into a bowl ready to receive our warm water.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n After my mother inspects my sister\u2019s makeshift bowl, she gently pours the 2 cups of warm water. Steph watches to see if the water will spill out but my mother folds in the mix. The sticky mixture is kneaded in a furious level of efficiency by my mother and she instructs my sister to grab the neatly folded kitchen towel and cover the dough. \u201cNow, let’s wash your hands.\u201d My mother lifts Steph up on a step stool and washes her hands in the kitchen sink.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYour grandmother had to wash her hands in the river, aren\u2019t you glad we get to wash our hands in the kitchen sink?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n My sister loved the attention from our mom. My mother was scrubbing the dough out of Steph\u2019s tiny fingernails. Steph was laughing at my father\u2019s grito just before singing along to his favorite song, El Rey by Vicente Fernandez \u201c\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n Llorar y llorar!<\/span><\/i>\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n For my family, when we go out to eat, the restaurant must have \u201cJalisco\u201d in the name. My father always says this is how we know it is \u201cauthentic\u201d. My grandfather was the same. It just might have to do with Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico, where my family lived before the Mexican Revolution.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/p>\n Twenty minutes have passed, and the dough is ready.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cJust like your grandmother, I want you to do as I do and take a pinch of dough and roll it into a ball.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n After all the dough is divided up and stored back under the kitchen towel my mother reaches for two cups. The empty jam jar will be repurposed as a drinking glass.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYour grandmother made tortillas just like this. And with glasses just like these.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The jam jars had a lip at the top and bottom of the outer rim that measured the right amount of thickness for the tortillas. And these homemade tortillas were nothing like the store bought, they were half as thick as pita bread.<\/span><\/p>\n My sister carefully rolled the glass jam jar across the dough while my mother steam-rolled over the rest. Watching my mom, as she moved with the grace and efficiency of a tortilla making machine, transforming raw dough into a tortilla, then flipping the flatten dough onto the gas stove. Watching the tortilla form bubbles and rise over the flame, my mother flipped the tortilla again and again, until it was ready to eat. As soon as the first tortilla was done, my mother smeared a square slice of butter on the center, folded it, and diapered it with a napkin before handing it to me. Mmm, the smell of butter, bacon, and warm tortilla dough will always be home.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Any other night, the first homemade tortilla is always mine, but on this day, she motions to the ofrenda with the old photo of a young wealthy couple and child, all adorned in fur coats and says,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cOn D\u00eda De Los Muertos, the first tortilla is for my grandmother and great grandparents.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n _<\/span><\/p>\n 2019 marks a new generation of our family tradition. My two nieces place their first homemade tortilla on their mother\u2019s ofrenda.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Cooking is transformed when cooking for D\u00eda De Los Muertos.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[19],"tags":[18],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1059"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1059"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1059\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1624,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1059\/revisions\/1624"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1059"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1059"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1059"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}