Tortillear

As part of my employment by the Diocese of Helena, I’ve been given the assignment of writing a few articles for the Montana Catholic newspaper. Officially, I’m “sharing my personal experiences in mission work” and “providing our parishioners with an intimate perspective of what life is like at the mission.” Translation: remind the readership that the Diocese has a mission in a foreign country, so they’ll feel compelled to donate. I knew that I was expected to submit an article this August, with the 15th sticking in my head as a deadline. I’d begun contemplating potential article subjects over the last weekend, although I was yet to start anything. More than a week is plenty of time to whip up something, I thought.

That attitude changed on Monday, when, for no reason in particular, I decided to double-check the article due-date. Surprise! My article was due in 2 days – the paper is printed on the 15th.

The Diocese had specifically requested that I include pictures of myself doing very Guatemalan things; proof that someone sitting in an office isn’t surfing the internet for research and making it all up. Unfortunately, although I’ve taken plenty of pictures, I don’t tend to appear in them. I’m not particularly fond of saying “take a picture of me doing this! Now this! OK, another one, but this time standing over here!” It’s just a bit too outwardly self-centered for my tastes. This attitude, however, now presented a problem. Needing a quick fix, I decided that perhaps it was high time I learned to make tortillas, and photo document the event.

Monday night, I asked the cooks if I could come the next morning for lessons – would they teach me to tortillear? I inquired. The verb tortillear literally means to “to make tortillas.” This food staple is so engrained in their culture it warrants its own verb.

Every morning a different group of girls takes a shift waking at the crack of dawn to prepare the day’s batch of tortillas. With about 150 mouths to feed thrice daily, each probably averaging 4 tortillas, that’s a hefty load of 1800 tiny corn hot cakes. I hadn’t done the math before deciding to contribute my own unskilled hands. Had I thought thing through, I wouldn’t have been surprised when the cooks said “Sure thing! See you a 4:30!”

Crap. That’s no fun.

Luckily, one of the cooks was observant enough to notice the quick flash of terror across my face, and wise enough to realize that my inexperience would probably be more of a hindrance than a help.

“Uh, you can go ahead and come down at 5:30” she reassured me.

Hmm. Somewhat like a stay of execution: should be good news, but you’re still on death row.

I pulled my sleep-heavy body out of bed as my alarm went off the next morning, already hating myself for thinking this was a good idea. Progress was well underway when I arrived downstairs. I stepped into the crowd circling the wood stove, and, taking a cue from those around me, pulled a ball of masa (dough made from just ground corn and a touch of water) off of the heap on the counter. I began forming it into a ball. The next step appeared to be simply clapping it back and forth, until it reached a suitable thinness. Certainly not rocket science. I began briskly slapping my hands together, watching the girls around me to make sure I wasn’t missing something.

Much to my dismay, the ball of dough wasted no time in sticking to my hands and tearing apart. Hmm. That’s not right. I re-rolled, and tried again. Two claps later, I was once again staring at chunks of torn dough smashed into either hand. Well, maybe I need to take it a bit slower. I started over, this time slowly and carefully patting my dough down. It patted right into my hand, and stayed there, smashing into indistinguishable chunks when I tried to remove it. I began to get annoyed. I watched the girls around me more closely, but their actions seemed genuinely straightforward. Roll the dough, pat the dough. Voila, perfect tortilla in seconds. Throw it on the stove for cooking and move on. I tried again, convinced I’d get it this time. I was wrong. My annoyance increased.

Frustration at that early hour quickly turned into irritation, then, unsurprisingly, anger. I continued to attempt various techniques of flattening my poor overworked lump of masa, to no avail. A necessity to maintain some level of professional decorum in front of my students was the only thing which kept me from exploding (in a manner which my parents and siblings would have surely found familiar), throwing the sticky ground corn dough against the wall and storming out. The girls, trained in the art of tortilleando from a young age, chuckled good naturedly at my failed attempts. At 5:45 am, good natured chuckles are indistinguishable from malice. My mood soured further.

I think I need to take up yoga. Or Buddhist meditation. Perhaps the breathing and concentration techniques taught in Lamaze classes would even be beneficial. Cooling myself down from a stewing temper tantrum can be a Herculean feat, although I think I can claim to have improved (since my toddler days.) I took a deep breath, rolled my dough into a new beginning ball, and concentrated.

I tried to be positive. “This is for fun, Jenna, remember that. They’ve been doing this for years. Do you think they could make pretty, fluffy buttermilk biscuits on their first try? Chill out.”

I never did succeed at making a truly good tortilla, although I did keep myself from freaking out in an embarrassing fashion. As the girls around me busily churned out dozens of perfectly round, even disks, I struggled with my little well-handled goo ball. In all, I think I produced three tortillas worth cooking. I am somewhat suspicious that they were mercifully discarded of when I wasn’t looking, sparing some unlucky diner the disappointment of a sub-par tortilla. My little contribution was hardly a drop in the literal bucket on the kitchen floor. It overflowed with hundreds of steaming little cakes by 6:15.

Relieved to finally be done with this Tortilleando Torture (it ranks up there with water boarding), I happily accepted the cooks’ offer to an early breakfast. Apparently skipping the long meal line is a well-deserved perk for the early-riser tortilla makers. I was delighted to see that this morning’s red beans had been cooked with shrimp (camarones) – what a treat! “Le gusta los camarones?” the cook asked me as she filled my bowl. I responded with enthusiastic affirmation, eager to taste what was shaping up to be a Cajun-style morning meal. The cooks regard me with a sort of doting affection, always being sure to offer me oversized portions, spare chicken feet and heaping piles of (cooked-caterpillar garnished) leafy greens. This morning, I watched as she enthusiastically fished through the vat of beans and shellfish, making sure to dish me up a greater-than-average quantity of shrimp.

My glee was premature, and short-lived. In the markets I’ve seen giant, fly-swarmed buckets of odiferous whole dried shrimp, fish, and tiny crabs. I’ve often wondered who in their right mind would purchase such an unappealing and clearly unsanitary form of seafood. Taking the musing one step further, I’ve also been perplexed as to how they could possibly be prepared. It seems improbable that they could ever be appetizing.

Already in a somewhat grumpy mood, I quickly learned that our own cooks, in fact, purchase these desiccated crustaceans. Sadly, my suspicions regarding potential edibility were correct. This form of seafood is far beyond culinary salvation, and even went so far as to ruin the rest of dish they were thrown into. Every bite of my beans had a distinctive oceanic taste. I would guess the best approximation to be the smell which emanates from tide pools at low tide. On a hot day. A very, very hot day. The pungent, alkaline bite of decaying vegetation and sea life permeated every spoonful. If I thought I’d exercised restraint earlier in the morning, I was doing so tenfold now. I couldn’t possibly push the dish away and refuse to eat it; the cook had made a special effort to give me the cream of the shrimpy crop, and would have been offended and perhaps angry had I done so.

The bright pink creatures swimming in my beans seemed to wave there antenna at me in mockery; they knew I didn’t want to eat them, and they clearly found joy in tormenting me from my bowl. The fully-shelled bodies crunched with each bite, spewing beany, rotten-ocean flavored shrimp juice into my mouth. Their legs and tails stuck in my teeth, provoking a gag reflex which manners forced me to suppress.

I choked the concoction down, drowning the flavor in twice my normal consumption of tortillas. Their bland palate-cleansing starch was a welcome reprieve from salty brine, and I was sure to save one to eat plain after finishing my beans.

Early-morning ordeal survived, I returned to my room, overwhelmed. I climbed back into bed, unsure of what else to do with myself, and fell into a fitful half sleep, dreaming of failure, salt and the smells of watery decaying death.