The Christmas Tamales

In the days Before Children, I worked as a lawyer; my husband did too, and still does. Eleven-hour days both members of a working couple meant we had little time for much else, including cleaning the house. We had a housecleaner once a week, a woman originally from Mexico, about my age, with young children of her own. When I left my career, I bid a reluctant farewell to the luxuries of the double-income no-kids life, including a sad adios to Maricela and her valued services as our housecleaner. But we stayed in touch - I gladly referred her to friends, and would run into her from time to time in our small town, sometimes as both our families combed yard sales for the best bargains.

Last week, Christmas Eve, there was a knock on our door. Maricela was there with a Tupperware bin with our name on it. She hurriedly dropped it in my husband's hands, wished us a Merry Christmas, and rushed back to her idling car, no doubt to make more deliveries. We peered inside, and found a tidy row of sepia corn husks and a delicious, unfamiliar aroma. Home made tamales. We heated them for dinner a few days later, we of European descent having no idea even how to reheat them. Twenty minutes in a 350 oven, and walking into our kitchen, you would have thought you walked into Mexico itself. They emerged steaming, releasing the mingling aromas of chiles, corn, and melt-in your mouth shredded chicken. We fought over the last one; even the baby asked for more.

I called Maricela tonight to thank her, and asked if she thought I would be able to make them if she gave me the recipe. She knows I am all thumbs in the kitchen, and the microwave is my friend. Housecleaners know everything. Not meaning to be impolite, she hesitated. "Um ... Jen? They are, you know, kind of hard?" I laughed. "You need to buy the masa, do you know where to buy that? Then you steam the corn ..." She paused, searching for the word "husks". I provided it, and she continued. "Then you steam the husks, and you need to make the chile, and the chicken, and roll it, you know?" "Then they need to go in a steam pot for about 2 hours... when you make tamales, you want to make a lot." She paused again. I realized, in her mind, she thought she had just given me the recipe.

I told her I would probably wait until next Christmas.

Surrounded by gift cards, shiny-papered presents with department-store bows and gift receipts carefully taped to the lids, the best gift of the year is behind me now, in a scrubbed Tupperware container waiting to be returned to its owner, perhaps to be refilled in another year.