Villa Victoria Blog

Making Tortillas in Jalcomulco, Veracruz 1995

Tortillas de Harina / Flour Tortillas

I was an apprentice tortilla-maker when I was 14 -- not by choice.  About twice a month my mother would take a large stainless steel basin, throw some flour, salt and baking powder in a mound.  Next she would pour some hot water directly from faucet into the middle of the mound and  mix it into a sticky mess.  Finally she would reach her hand into the large container of Crisco (gulp!) and pull out a big glop and begin to work it into the dough mound.  As the hot water activated the gluten in the flour, the shortening helped break it down and smooth it out.  She would dump the mass out onto a floured board and begin to vigorously knead the ball -- 50 turns until it was smooth and white and bounced back when you stuck a finger in it.  Then she would anoint her hands with more Crisco and start to squeeze ping-pong-sized balls of dough until she had a big pile of little balls resting and waiting to be rolled out.  

This is where I came in.  While she was preparing the masa, the griddle, herein known as comal, was heating on the stove.  The fire had to be very hot, but not too hot.  It felt like a blacksmith's forge.  Then my mother would start.  On a lightly dusted board she would flatten out that ball in 4-5 turns turn around and place the perfectly round tortilla onto the hot comal.  Once it was on the comal, it was my responsibility to keep up with her rapid-fire pace.  After the initial searing (1-2 seconds) I had to pick it up by a tiny corner and flip it over so it could get the first brown spots.  Then I had to wait a few more seconds before I picked it up again to turn it.  I turned it two more times all the while patting carefully to encourage it to inflate like the Balloon Boy's rig.  I learned that there is a right side and wrong side to a tortilla.  The right side is made after the second turn when brown spots form that look like a pretty pinto pony.  The protocol is to fill your tortilla on the other side of right side so as to present it well -- it's all about aesthetics.

Meanwhile, all this had to be done at lightning speed because my mother would crank them out and you had to get a rhythm going or she would get backed up and you didn't want that!  I had to learn how to not burn my fingers and later my fingers got used to it and then I got better and then I could keep up with her. As each tortilla was done, I had to transfer it to a crocheted-edged dish towel
and finally, we would end up with a stack of about 30 beautiful potentialities - ready to be slathered with just butter, or filled with beans and rice, or cooked again on the comal folded over and filled with cheese as a quesadilla.

4 cups       Flour
1 T Baking powder
1 T Kosher salt
1 1/4 c.     Hot water
1/2 c.        Shortening or corn oil

Place the flour in the bowl of a food processor along wit the baking powder and salt.  Pulse a couple of times to mix it up.   Put the water in all at once and process until it forms into a ball.  Add the shortening and process until it is incorporated.  On a floured board knead the dough for several turns until it is smooth.  Put in a bowl and cover with plastic wrap.  Let dough rest for 15-20 minutes.  Meanwhile heat the comal (griddle) on medium high.   
 Makes about 12 tortillas.

Tsukemono a la Mexicana / Pickled Cabbage

Recently I have become nostalgic for Takohachi Restaurant on Jackson Street in Seattle -- the old one.  The one where the slender bespectacled owner exclaimed to everyone coming in, "Hai, dozo!"  I always ordered the Kasuzuke Gindara (sake lees-marinated and grilled sablefish), miso and a little mound of sweet/tart Tsukemono -- pickled things

On one of our trips to Mexico City in the 90s my husband and daughter and I stayed at the Galería Plaza.  One afternoon, while standing at the concierge's desk, I heard one young man helping someone on the telephone.  He had the usual musical Mexico City accent.  When we were done with our business with the concierge, I looked up and saw that the face that belonged with that voice was a handsome Japanese man.  I wondered how he got there in the middle of Mexico City with a Chilango accent.

Last May I came across an article in Inside Mexico by Lorraine Orlandi called "East to the Americas".   Ms. Orlandi reveals the migration story of a group of Japanese men to Acacoyagua, Chiapas, Mexico in 1897.  They were promised land on which to grow coffee, but the best land had already been taken.  They stayed, married Mexican women, started businesses and assimilated.  What a story!  I encourage you to click on the link above to read the story.

Once in Cuernavaca, my Lebanese cab driver told me that "Mexico is a country that welcomes everyone".  Indeed it is as evidenced by my Chicakasaw Freedman grandmother, Elizabeth Cohee's immigration document. In honor of my nostalgia, in honor of the young Japanese immigrant men and in honor of Mexico's willingness to accept people from other countries, I created Tsukemono a la Mexicana, pickled cabbage with orange, pomegranate and pumpkin seeds.

1 Small cabbage
1 Carrot, shredded or julienned
1 Pomegranate
1 Serrano chile
1 Orange, cut into sections
3 T White vinegar
1 tsp.        Honey
3 T Toasted pumpkin seeds
Kosher salt

Shred the cabbage ultra finely with a mandolin.Salt the shredded cabbage and carrot liberally and let it soften.  After about 15 minutes, rinse, drain and pat dry.  Put cabbage in a bowl.  Cut the pomegranate in four and take the seeds (arils) out.  Place in a tall narrow container.  Reserve the arils of one quarter of the pomegranate for later.  With a muddler or the end of a rolling pin, smash the arils until they release their juice.  Strain the juice into a small bowl.Add the honey and vinegar.  Slice the serrano chile very thinly and add to the cabbage.  Add the orange sections, pour on the juice vinegar liquid and salt to taste.  Toss.  Serve with the reserved arils and chopped pumpkin seeds.
 

Estofado de Pollo / Chicken and Plantain Stew

This post came about because I had an old bag of frozen peas whose time had come.  I also had two black-ripe plantains that had to be used.

In March 1999 I went to Cuajinicuilapa, Guerrero, Mexico to attend a four-day conference called El Tercer Encuentro de Los Pueblos Negros de La Costa Chica, or The Third Meeting of the Black Towns of the Costa Chica of Guerrero. 
I heard about the people of African descent on the coasts of Guerrero and Oaxaca from Stanford University anthropologist, Bobby Vaughn.  He told me about the Encuentro scheduled in March and that was all I needed.  I booked a flight, flew into Acapulco, took a bus four hours south along the stretch of coastline in Guerrero that people call La Costa Chica -- as opposed to La Costa Grande which goes north from Acapulco and encompases all the luxury resort towns as Manzanillo, Zihuatanejo, Mazatlan, and Puerto Vallarta.

I checked into the Hotel Marín.

The Encuentro was initiated by Trinidadian native, Father Glyn Jemmott, parish priest of El Ciruelo, Oaxaca.  The purpose of the gathering is to bring the black towns together that dot the coastline from Acapulco down to Puerto Escondido in Oaxaca.  There are lectures, music, displays of traditional Afro-Mexican dances, food, workshops and a wonderful feeling of community and camaraderie.
On the second day of the Encuentro I took a break from the proceedings to walk along Calle Cuahutemoc, peering into the shops and buying an occasional length of oil cloth.

One shop carried a miscellany of items -- laces, ribbons, dishes, rope, farming chemicals and feed.  The woman behind the counter asked from where I came and asked what relationship I had with the Encuentro. When she found out that my interest was in food, she said, "Oh, you need to talk to my mother, she's a great cook and she can give you lots of recipes.  Come back tonight and ring that doorbell".

That evening, as instructed, I rang the high doorbell and waited.  The woman from that afternoon answered and let me into a large carport, down a hallway and up two flights of stairs.  We walked into a large airy room that was open onto the street and consequently let in all the smells from the food stalls, the horns from the taxis and the general Friday night excitement.  The daughter introduced me to her mother, Bertina Garcia Bernardino,

 who, eschewing the modern red-upholstered matching chair and sofa in their living area, languidly swung in a hammock and kept an eye on all the proceedings down in the street.  Doña Bertina welcomed me and didn't waste time launching into her favorite recipes; Adobo Crudo, an uncooked marinade, Manchamanteles, a tablecloth-staining red sauce in which to cook a filet of beef: Mole Verde de Pollo, green tomatillo mole flavored with ground pumpkin seeds; Mixiotes de Barbacoa, individual parchment paper packages of chicken, garlic and chiles, steamed in a huge pot.  She kept them coming, one after another, until I was glad I had invested in a hand-held tape recorder.

After her recitation she showed me her immaculate kitchen and, eyeing her "batterie de cuisine", I wondered how she could create so many dishes with so few implements and pots.  On the wall was was a photograph of her as a young woman and a certificate of midwifery from a correspondence school in Miami!  She talked to me about her children, her late husband, about how she had brought half of Cuajinicuilapa into the world and how she built her small hardware business downstairs.  Doña Bertina even showed me where she had a birthing room built and where, still keeping her hand in the "birth" business, she kept a cryogenically sealed vat of bulls' sperm.  

The recipe she gave me called for manteca -- lard, but last night I chose to use coconut oil.

4    Chicken breasts, cut into "fingers"
4    Tablespoons coconut oil (or butter and olive oil)
1    Large onion, sliced
4    Garlic cloves, minced
2    Ripe plantains, peeled and diced
1    Large carrot, julienned
2    Large tomatoes, peeled and cubed
4    Cups chicken broth
2    Ounces pimento-stuffed green olives
4    Medium waxy potatoes, peeled and diced
2    Ounces pickled jalapeño slices
8    Ounces frozen peas

Heat the coconut oil and brown the chicken pieces on all sides.  Set chicken aside.  Add the onion and garlic.  Add the cubed plantains, carrot, tomatoes and potatoes.  Sauté for a couple of minutes.  Add the chicken broth and the jalapeño slices.  Bring to a boil and cook for about five minutes.  Return the chicken and juices to the pan and simmer for about 15 minutes or until a thermometer inserted in a larger piece registers 160˚.  Add the peas at the end and taste for salt.

Ad Hoc Salsa

[ad hoc|(") ad-'häk: for the particular end or case at hand without consideration of wider application]

The most precious heirloom my mother gave me was a molcajete (mortar and pestle) that she brought in her suitcase from Mexico in 1945.  A molcajete is a heavy three-legged bowl carved out of quarried volcanic rock.  The word, molcajete is a corruption of the Nahuatl word, temolcaxitl.  The pestle is a rounded three-dimensional trapezoidal rock and is ergonomically suited to the hand in order to facilitate a grinding action.  Its Spanish name, tejolote, is also derived from the Aztec word texolotl.

Some of my earliest memories are of the muffled, bell-like sound of the tejolote grinding against the shallow  bowl of the molcajete.  The beans are bubbling, the rice is silently swelling, there is a freshly-made stack of flour tortillas wrapped in a crocheted-edged towel, and my mother is making just enough salsa for that meal.  One tomato, one chile, one garlic clove and a few sprigs of cilantro -- served in the molcajete.  How utterly simple!

Since most people in the United States do not have a molcajete, it is perfectly legal to use a mini food processor.  This recipe begs for a perfectly ripe tomato -- the salsa looks so pretty when it is a true red and not a pithy pink.  If you don't have fresh cilantro on hand, you can substitue a few smashed cumin seeds (5-6) which will make it a more Northern Mexico salsa.

1     Medium ripe tomato
1     Medium serrano chile
1     Medium garlic clove
1     Tablespoon finely minced onion
2     Small sprigs of cilantro (leaves only)
       Kosher salt

In a small saucepan, bring the tomato and the chiles to a gentle boil and cook for about five minutes.  The tomato should be halfway stewed on the outer edges and still firm on the inside.  Drain.  Peel the tomato and don't seed -- the seeds have flavor.  Coarsley chop the chile.

If using a molcajete, grind the garlic, using a circular wrist-twisting motion.  When that is ground, add the chopped chile and grind some more.  Add a few grains of salt (and the cumin seeds, if using) , add the minced onion and then add the chopped tomato, still grinding.  If using a mini food processor, follow the same steps and pulse lightly when you finally add the tomato.  The salsa should be amalgamated with a few chunks of tomato here and there.  Adjust the taste for salt and add a few leaves of cilantro, lightly bruising some of the leaves to release their essential oils.