In anticipation of the new pressure cooker (it’s not here yet!), I made some flour tortillas this morning. There’s still a smell of warm flour and lard hanging in the air, and it’s deeply nostalgic for me. It’s the basis for a house that smells like food.
As I made them, I thought about my grandmother and my great-aunt shaping effortless circles while gossiping and seeming not to pay any attention to what their hands were doing. At best, I could lend one ear to John-Paul as he fixed my computer woes, and resign myself to mostly imperfect shapes. Lacking the patience and skill to slap the tortillas into submission with my palms, I grabbed edges and let their weight do the stretching. A little like tossing pizza dough, and I got the idea that I should try focaccia next. Or roti. Liza said she could teach me roti. Mmm, flatbreads.
In lieu of beans, I’m going to go fill some tortillas with zucchini, tomato, onion, and cheese for lunch. I’ve already had the traditional several (three, this time) hot off the stove and slathered in butter.
Care to share your recipe? I made tortillas all the time while in Peace Corps, but they always ended up tasting great but texturally… unsound.
My mother has a hilarious tortilla-making story from her teaching days in Austin many years ago.
Esther
Some smells instantly remind one of home and in your case it is the flour tortillas; I have met Mexican ladies who could roll them out like your relatives and admired their skill! It would be so nice to be able to do likewise!