A Tortilla Dozen
One of my best memories from childhood is standing in the kitchen while my mom made tortillas on a comal my dad made for her. As I’ve mentioned before, there were a whole gang of us kids, so my mother used to have to make pile after pile of tortillas for us.
I loved the sound of my mother clapping the masa between her hands and watching the bubbles form as the tortilla cooked on the comal. I’ve never figured out how, but my mother seemed to have fingers immune to the heat of a comal and flipped them with ease. Must be a secret extra layer of skin on moms or something.
When she’d add a hot one to the top of the pile, I was always lurking around with a stick of butter, ready to swoop in and snag one when she turned her back. She’d yell at me in Spanish if she caught me and usually hit me with what was ever nearest her reach. But it was worth it.
There was something about a fresh, hot tortilla in my hands. I’d peel back the wax paper around the butte
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