Passing the Baton (in Food Traditions)

When I was a young girl of twelve, my mother was the lone preparer of meals for her family of nine, soon to be ten. About this time, she began to experience a bemusement at her third daughter (myself) who had been lolling around the house in long hours of boredom.

No requests from me to do much of anything my pre-teen counterparts were doing; just let me make supper, please.

She must have had a hard time quashing her obvious pleasure over this. You know, as soon as a young person realizes what they're having fun with is actually work, well, it becomes WORK. The offers to help just stop coming.

Wisely, Mom subdued her reaction and casually retreated to her newspaper in the livingroom. Recipes and measuring cups didn't play a big part in our household, but after watching Mom prepare meals for most of my twelve years, where to go from here just felt natural.

Thus I began to imitate Mom's classic comfort foods and the traditional Mexican fare of our culture. But if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I wasn't just out to make Mom feel good. I wanted to make my own mark. While I knew I was enjoying myself, there was something missing from my experience--something on the periphery, soon to arrive and not anything I would soon let go of.

One afternoon Mom commented that she had all the fixings for tacos. With that mention, my wheels of creativity began to turn. Here, I thought, I will break away from the taco that I know to the taco I can get excited about.

Now don't get me wrong. Mom made a good taco. But it was the one cultural favorite that I had for some time felt she was too complacent about. Brown the meat, season with garlic and salt, fry up the shells, add lettuce, cheese, and salsa. Every other dish Mom made was vivid with flavor and texture, and in comparison, her tacos were paling.

Once a year for many years we had tacos at a Mexican festival in a churchyard a few miles from our home. Now those tacos were memorable, with spicy, tender meat submerged in tasty juices that oozed messily from their soft shells into waxed cardboard "boats." The lettuce, crisp and cool and finely shredded, gave just the right contrast to the heat of the meat, while threads of a rich Monterey impacted all the flavors with a creamy tempering.

Garnishes like smooth guacamole, salsa fresca amply flecked with cilantro and roasted chilies , and tangy crema blanco were lined up in iced receptacles for diners to heap onto their tacos. Served from a mobile stand to be eaten at picnic tables while being serenaded by a live Mariachi band--could a taco experience be any better than that?

If I couldn't compete with the atmosphere, I would try my hardest to recreate the flavors.

Digging into Mom's pantry, I scared up all the seasonings of color and taste I thought would work. As did the bazaar stand of my hopeful emulation, I used the ubiquitous ground chuck everyone seemed to gravitate toward for tacos. These days roasted and chunked meats are my preferred "carne" of choice, but for this occasion I slow cooked the hamburger into reduced, then replenished stocks of tomato and chicken. When ultra tender and juicy, I assembled the tacos with all the accompaniments laid out to look every bit as festive as were the ones at the, well, festival.

My dad, settling himself before a plate at the table, was served the first one. As my mother readied hers, she seemed intrigued and commented nicely about the added colors and qualities of the meat.

Like a twelve-year-old (or maybe NOT like a twelve-year-old) I watched from the stove, still stirring protectively my body of work. Both anticipation and dread over their opinion washed through me. I had probably overtasted the food, and didn't know anymore if it was all that good. Maybe, I thought, it's really, really bad.

Dad's first taste dispelled my qualms. Not one to overdramatize things, his eyes widened and his expressive, if few, words made me blush with pride.

"Luisa," he gushed to my mom, as much as macho Latino males can gush, "These tacos taste JUST like the ones at the festival....taste one, taste ONE!"

In that ego-pumping moment, I suddenly became aware that my mom's take on my dad's response might not fly so well. She might feel slighted by his enthusiasm, and even in my immaturity I knew I wasn't looking for THAT.

My mother was too smart a cookie for that. She enjoyed her plate every bit as much as my father did, and as often happens when one does a job too well, for some time then taco-making became my exclusive task.

I still enjoy making tacos that way, and even though I think I have a pretty good handle on many other Mexican dishes, my mother had a way with hers that is hers and hers alone. I think I'm doing pretty good, and then I remember the nuances of her specialties that I believe I have yet to capture.

What I have captured, and what captivates me, is this enjoyment I retain for carrying on food traditions that are so vulnerable now to going the way of "lost arts." I hardly fear that tamale-factories will stop churning out tamales, but it does seem possible that they will become a thing of the past in home kitchens.

Last Christmas, I had to take a phone call in the midst of the holiday tamale-making session. Thinking my thirteen-year-old granddaughter, who was helping me, would wait, I lingered over the call in another room. When I returned, there was the whole assembled batch, waiting for the roaster.

She may or may not make tamales from scratch to finish in her lifetime, but she has the seeds of knowledge and she beamed at a task well-done. As well, she loved the final product, and knows this: you can't find tamales in Wisconsin as easily as you can in California, where Grandma was raised.

Sometimes, if you want to enjoy a tradition, YOU might just have to be the one who keeps it alive.