Every Christmas, my mama makes tamales. It’s just kind of an expected thing, and I never thought twice about it, until recent years.
My mom is now 71 years old. I have no idea how that happened – she’s still just my young, amazing, strong mama.
But 71 is not 31. And making tamales isn’t an easy task. This year, she did it by herself – dozens and dozens of tamales; pounds and pounds of masa and pork cooked with red chile; bags and bags of corn husks.
And as always, they are AMAZING. And somehow, this year they are even better than usual – the masa is fluffy, the chile is at the perfect heat, the flavors are perfection. And my tiny little mama toiled all day and made these amazing delicacies for us, her greedy little (big) kids.
J and I brought home a freezer bag full, and we have been very, very slowly defrosting and eating them. It’s a once-a-year thing; it takes so much effort; it’s so full of love. I’ll be really, really sad when the last of them are gone.