Tradition Deconstructed
Tradition is the root of culture. It is how the elders pass on knowledge to the younger generations. It is a time of bonding — knowing each person has been through it before, as will each child to come. Tradition is a method of preservation, akin to salt-curing one’s heritage. Ceremonies are often based around one of two things: prayer and food.
Whether it be latkes during Hanukkah, pre-dawn suhoor during Ramadan, or leaving out cookies for Santa Claus, food and tradition are forever bound. Gathering the family around a feast is an easy way to grab everyone’s attention. Sharing stories of prior generations is great accompaniment to a well-prepared meal. Tampering with tradition can be seen as a slight to those who came before. I learned this lesson the hard way.
Tradition isn’t held with high esteem in my family. Little is sacred to us in regards of upholding the past. We aren’t a religious bunch. Beyond just gathering together over a hot meal for the holidays, most anything else is up for debate. Most anything except tamales, that is.
Tamales are usually served during traditional holidays and festivities in Mexico, including Christmas. While my grandmother left most of her heritage in the Central Valley, tamales on Christmas followed her to the East Bay. For years, the family would gather at my grandparents’ house on Christmas Eve to enjoy tamales, rice, beans, and more traditional American fare, like green bean casserole and mashed potatoes. It was a beautiful blend of culture, ham beside beans, potatoes cozied up to tamales, and everything covered in mole.
My mother saw this as an opportunity to liven up Christmas dinner with her side of the family, as well as a way to lighten the cooking load. She started buying tamales from the same restaurant as my grandma. (Sorry, guys. Grandma bought her tamales. I know the romanticized idea of a Mexican woman making five dozen tamales by hand for her family makes for a feel good story, but ain’t nobody got time for that.) Out went the turkey, in came tamales and here started a new tradition.
Last December, I was interviewing for a kitchen manager job at a local beer hall. With Christmas around the corner, I put together a menu to serve during the upcoming winter beer event. Kuri squash hash with a soft-boiled egg, Moroccan beef stew, and a “leftovers” sandwich of turkey salad and cranberry sauce served over pan-fried stuffing all left me salivating. But it was my idea for “Romero Family Christmas” that had me feeling most excited. I wanted to combine my family tradition of tamales with my developed culinary skills and put a new spin on a classic. Chicken mole over cheesy polenta topped with jalapeno jelly. All the flavors of Christmas dinner in a different package.
I eventually turned down the job and my ideas stayed in my notebook. But the thought of deconstructed tamales rattled around in my mind ad nauseam. I called my mom to ask if she had ordered the tamales. When she said no, I told her I wanted to cook and pitched my idea. She was in, and I was off.
I paid a visit to a friend who had recently taken a culinary excursion to Oaxaca. She offered up a mole recipe and a handful of chiles native to Mexico. With bag full of dried peppers and the basis for my meal, time was the only thing standing in my way.
Prep began the day before. I boiled pounds of chicken thighs while cleaning and roasting chiles. Out of the oven and into a pot, I stewed the peppers before they hit the blender. The entire time I was cooking, I reveled in the smells. I basked in the flavors. I couldn’t stop smiling. All I could think about was how good this would taste and how impressed everyone would be with my cooking. Not once did I think, “This isn’t tamales.”
The next day, we gathered at my aunt’s house. I showed up with a huge pot of mole, a quart of dry polenta, a jar of homemade pepper jelly, and high expectations. Knowing my family, I shouldn’t have let my hopes reach such heights.
I was in the kitchen making polenta when I heard my uncle Joe walk in. Before greeting anyone, or before anyone could greet him, he bellowed, “Alright, where’s the tamales? I’m ready to eat!”
Once everything was warm, it was moved to the counter as folks started to line up. Uncle Joe was near the front. “Where are the tamales?” he asked. I explained the mole and polenta concept.
“So… are the tamales still in the oven?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, so I stared at him blankly until someone else caught my attention.
“So, how does this work?” my cousin Matt asked.
“Well,” I said, “you can eat it however you like, but I’d go polenta on the bottom, then mole, then top it with the jalapeno jelly.”
“That’s jelly?” he said. “I thought it was relish.”
This is when I knew I was in for a long day. I spent the next ten minutes or so standing by my creation and explaining the concept and execution. I felt like I was handing out samples at Costco. Directions on how to eat a dish may work at WD-50, but should not be required at a family function. Most everyone expressed gratitude and told me it was delicious, but I couldn’t help but feel as if I let everyone down. The staggering amount of leftovers only exacerbated my concern. Before dessert was served, I looked at the spread I had labored over and reeled at how much went untouched. I sadly looked up at my mom. She smiled, knowing what every mother learns over time: It doesn’t matter how hard you worked on it. If they don’t want it, they don’t want it.
I got over it in the short-term, enjoying the time with my family, seeing four generations of Greenlee’s in one house. Little else was said about dinner, as more pressing matters of babies and football took over. But, as I lugged home about three quarters of the mole I made, I couldn’t shake my disappointment. Then, I thought about the first time I contributed to a holiday meal.
Each year for Christmas Eve dinner, Grandma (err, El Sol rather…) provided the tamales and rice, while Grandpa made the beans and chili. Now, this wasn’t beans-and-beef Texas-style chili. It was more of a Mexican beef stew, but Grandpa called it chili, so it was chili.
Visiting my grandparents one day with my dad, the talk of Christmas Eve dinner arose.
“I’m making my chili next week,” Grandpa said. “You should come by and learn.”
The following week, I drove to my grandparent’s house and spent the afternoon with my grandpa and my cousin Jess. He taught me the importance of peeling carrots. He showed me how to properly brown the cubed chuck. He told me to cut the end off of each clove of garlic. I asked him why, as my patience for meticulous tasks was still non-existent. He scrunched his nose and the corners of his mouth curled downward. “Too bitter,” he said, while shaking his head. (If you knew Louis “Richard” Romero at all, this look was very familiar, as very little in life met his standards.)
He said everything had to be cut to the same size. Uniformity was key in cooking. Each ingredient was added at a specific time, as to ensure nothing was overdone. This was also where I learned to cook by feel.
“How much cumin should I put in?” I asked.
“Until it tastes good,” was his answer.
Grandpa, Jess, and I all watched over the pot. As the liquid would evaporate, we’d add a bit more water. Once the potatoes were tender, it was finished. As I learned was custom in the kitchen, once everything was clean, we all shared a cold beer.
As the pot of chili took its place on the table Christmas Eve, I watched eagerly as ladle by ladle, the chili was devoured. Everyone heaped praise on how good the chili was.
“Oh, well, I had a little help this year,” Grandpa said with a smirk.
The following year, Grandma died just days before Christmas. We continued on with dinner as planned. The hustle and bustle was a bit much for Grandpa to handle, even with my aunts doing much of the work. The following Christmas, he said he didn’t want to host dinner.
We moved the festivities to my uncle’s house. Grandpa said he wasn’t going to make his chili. I couldn’t imagine Romero Christmas without it, so I did the only thing I could think to do.
“I’ll make the chili,” I proclaimed.
I had made it on my own a few times before, but this was the first time I would make it for the family. I labored over the chili a few days before we were to gather. It builds flavor as it sits, Grandpa said, so I let it sit.
I rushed the pot to the stove as soon as I arrived. It was my only focus for the day: make sure the chili is hot. Well, it was definitely hot.
When telling me letting it sit for a few days builds flavor, Grandpa didn’t tell me it also builds heat. The habanero was more prevalent than the day I made the chili.
Once Grandpa arrived, I all but shoved the spoon in his mouth. I couldn’t wait to get feedback on my work.
“Whoa, shit!” he said, nearly choking on the habanero. After a swig of beer and a few more bites, Grandpa pointed at the bowl with his spoon and said, “This is good.”
I couldn’t stop smiling. I got the only thing I wanted for Christmas. I felt more 8 than 25, but it didn’t matter. With those words, in my eyes, I saved Christmas. From what exactly, I’m not sure. But that didn’t matter, either. All that mattered was Grandpa liked my chili.
Well into 2015, I still had ridiculous amounts of chicken mole in my freezer. I would thaw it out whenever I was broke, knowing it would sustain my hunger. I thought it turned out well for my first attempt, but, by the end of the batch, I never wanted to see chicken mole again. It was then that I realized I should save my innovations for my industry friends and with my family, stick to the little tradition we have. So, this Christmas, Mom can buy tamales and we’ll all eat them and be happy. If I’m asked to bring anything, maybe I’ll just make a batch of chili.
