On our first night in Dawson, the kids settled down for the night in blankets and sleeping bags. I walked over to Uncle Tom's with a 18 year old Laphroaig. He found an unopened Maker's Mark in his cabinet and we got down to watching some football and making a dent in the spirits. Much later when I dodged traffic and stumbled across 10th street and came back home, the house was like an oven. Till I wandered upstairs and opened the bedroom door and then it was like a grill. I wandered back downstairs and turned off as many space heaters as I could and made myself comfortable on the couch. The house was filled with the aroma of slow cooked ancho peppers and pork and garlic. Tamales tomorrow.
Next morning, while the kids and the dogs played outside, several people arrived. Greta directed the group and Uncle Tom and Quinn gleefully kneaded the four pounds of lard into the ten pounds of masa and then we received instructions on how to trowel the masa onto the corn husks.
The Nebraska crew seem to take to tamale making like Punjabis to parathas. In no time, sixteen to seventeen dozen pork filled tamales were steaming away. Mine were spiked with thinly sliced habanero - mmm! Delicioso.
I sense the beginnings of a tradition.
Next morning, while the kids and the dogs played outside, several people arrived. Greta directed the group and Uncle Tom and Quinn gleefully kneaded the four pounds of lard into the ten pounds of masa and then we received instructions on how to trowel the masa onto the corn husks.
The Nebraska crew seem to take to tamale making like Punjabis to parathas. In no time, sixteen to seventeen dozen pork filled tamales were steaming away. Mine were spiked with thinly sliced habanero - mmm! Delicioso.
I sense the beginnings of a tradition.
No comments:
Post a Comment