my mother taught me to make tortillas when i was ten. it was awful. i could never get the masa dough right, so it either stuck to my hands or crumbled between my fingers. adjusting the heat on the griddle was a pain, too; my tortillas fluctuated between raw and burnt. most nights, i’d get so frustrated i’d make just enough for dinner & bury the rest of the dough in the bottom of the trash can. it was a nuisance, a chore, something i did because i had to. just like cooking; just like laundry. when i left for college, i swore i would never make tortillas again. but then i saw this press in the latin market while my boyfriend & i were picking up some things for the restaurant & got an inexplicable urge to make him tortillas. i say inexplicable because i don’t cook. i’ve survived on peanut butter-honey-&-banana sandwiches & lean cuisines since i was 17. occasionally, if i’m feeling fancy, i’ll throw a frozen pizza in the oven. but for some reason, i really wanted to make tortillas for him. he’s a chef, so i’m sure he can make them better than i can, but that wasn’t the point. i wanted to do this for him, even though it’s something i absolutely hate doing. which got me thinking about my mom. she & i never really got along when i was younger. the only time we talked was when we were fighting. i was always too busy being mad at her when i was younger to notice all the ways she tried to make me happy. aside from making my siblings & me hot tortillas every night, she would also made us a separate “american” dinner because we didn’t want the mexican food she’d cook for my dad. even though she didn’t know how to make a lot of the food we asked for, she always tried her best to replicate pictures she’d seen of it. it must have been the last thing she wanted to do after working all day, but she never made it seem like a bother. my mother grew up without a mother & had her first child while she herself was still one. it must have been hard for her, raising four kids with no one to turn to for advice. & i’m sure having a child who constantly told you she hated you sometimes made her question her parenting choices. but in the kitchen she was different; she was confident. while she may not have always known what to do when you had a problem or needed help with homework, she could always make you feel good with food. she’d make cakes for special occasions, your favorite meal for birthdays & good grades. maybe i didn’t always feel love from her, but i could always taste it in her food. looking back, maybe that’s what that unexplainable urge to make my boyfriend tortillas was — a way of expressing care, love. a seemingly small grand gesture.
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my mother taught me to make tortillas when i was ten. it was awful. i could never get the masa dough right, so it either stuck to my hands or crumbled between my fingers. adjusting the heat on the griddle was a pain, too; my tortillas fluctuated between raw and burnt. most nights, i’d get so frustrated i’d make just enough for dinner & bury the rest of the dough in the bottom of the trash can.

it was a nuisance, a chore, something i did because i had to. just like cooking; just like laundry. when i left for college, i swore i would never make tortillas again.

but then i saw this press in the latin market while my boyfriend & i were picking up some things for the restaurant & got an inexplicable urge to make him tortillas.

i say inexplicable because i don’t cook. i’ve survived on peanut butter-honey-&-banana sandwiches & lean cuisines since i was 17. occasionally, if i’m feeling fancy, i’ll throw a frozen pizza in the oven.

but for some reason, i really wanted to make tortillas for him. he’s a chef, so i’m sure he can make them better than i can, but that wasn’t the point. i wanted to do this for him, even though it’s something i absolutely hate doing.

which got me thinking about my mom. she & i never really got along when i was younger. the only time we talked was when we were fighting. i was always too busy being mad at her when i was younger to notice all the ways she tried to make me happy.

aside from making my siblings & me hot tortillas every night, she would also made us a separate “american” dinner because we didn’t want the mexican food she’d cook for my dad. even though she didn’t know how to make a lot of the food we asked for, she always tried her best to replicate pictures she’d seen of it. it must have been the last thing she wanted to do after working all day, but she never made it seem like a bother.

my mother grew up without a mother & had her first child while she herself was still one. it must have been hard for her, raising four kids with no one to turn to for advice. & i’m sure having a child who constantly told you she hated you sometimes made her question her parenting choices. but in the kitchen she was different; she was confident. while she may not have always known what to do when you had a problem or needed help with homework, she could always make you feel good with food. she’d make cakes for special occasions, your favorite meal for birthdays & good grades. maybe i didn’t always feel love from her, but i could always taste it in her food.

looking back, maybe that’s what that unexplainable urge to make my boyfriend tortillas was — a way of expressing care, love. a seemingly small grand gesture.

28 Notes/ Hide

  1. angelablack said: I was going to type ‘this is lovely’ but I see that sentiment has already been expressed. My mom was a horrible cook and we complained every time. It was a lot of work done out of love even if it was burned. I now crave everything she used to make.
  2. eoporto said: this is lovely.
  3. biorhythmist said: this is lovely
  4. melissasantos posted this