in Between Corn and Flour

Ernesto Alonso

My grandmother was your traditional Mexican woman. She migrated to the U.S. of A from the state of Durango with my grandfather and her kids; my mom was four. My grandmother was a devout catholic, often attending mass multiple times a week at our local Parish. There were two parishes—St. Procopius and St. Pius, and she would alternate between the two, capitalizing on the availability of sermon time. She loved to sing. She sang with all her heart the hymn and chants of mass—a direct reflection of her fervor for God. My grandmother, whom we referred to as Ama, was our protector as well. When my cousins, siblings, and I were subjected to the draconian discipline measures our parents imposed on us, in an attempt to remedy our mischievous behaviors, Ama would stand in front of us like a shield, or like Gandalf from Lord of The Rings, "you shall not pass!'"

When I was around the rambunctious age of five, she commanded me to pick up the tortilla that had slipped out of my hands and flopped to the floor. Subsequently, Ama then proceeded to tell me a maxim that has bewildered me until very recently: "La tortilla es la cara de dios"—The tortilla is God's face. "That's preposterous," I used to think. How can a tortilla possibly be God's face? Some even might say it is sacrilegious to say such a thing; blasphemous even. The contours of my adolescent consciousness couldn't begin to understand such an allegorical statement.

La tortilla was an inherited birthright to Mexicans. It is an integral part of our lives and as important as family and a home. The ubiquity of the tortilla allowed me to say, "oh well, I'll just grab another". Some kids got apples or Go-Gurts for snacks, we got tortillas rubbed with a stick of butter and a sprinkle of salt. Ama would heat the tortilla on the open stove flame, flipping the tortilla with her bare hands, because to use something other than your bare hands to flip the tortilla is a crime against the culture. All the doñas (older Mexican women) solidified their Mexican femininity byflipping with their bare hands. You weren't a real "woman" or Mexican for that matter if you could not flip the tortilla on an open flame with your bare hands.

To understand the value of the tortilla, one must understand the value of corn. "Maiz" (Spanish for corn) is a sacred food in Latinx culture, dating back to pre-Columbian Indigenous culture. It was the crop of the Aztecs and Mayans, among many others. Corn is the staple of Mexican food aside from beans, squash, and chili peppers. Corn has fed the people from the region for thousands of years, entering into a reciprocal relationship between mother earth and its people. The land was important. It was part of our livelihood, where we grew and took care of the crop. We cherish this plant for everything it has given us: food, feed for animals, and solace. Mexico is the mecca of corn, the copious amount of corn variations is nowhere else to be found in the world. There is red corn, blue corn, and even black corn. Every corn unique with its own special properties.

La tortilla, which is corn transformed, is more than a taco. It is more than a burrito, more than a contemporary hashtag like "TacoTuesday." It's more than a Taco Bell chalupa or chips for your salsa. The tortilla has become holy, connecting to the religiosity of Mexican-ness. It has become our daily bread. So, when my Ama proclaimed the tortilla to be God's face, she was emphasizing a deep respect—to the point of reverence, for the hope the tortilla has brought in times of hunger, for its abundance that is rooted in nature.

When I would visit family in Mexico, during meals there would lie a circular contraption with a lid placed as the center piece of the table. Inside this centerpiece, the tortillas would be elegantly wrapped in a colorful cloth with floral motifs surrounding the borders. The wrapped tortillas are placed in the container, so to retain their warmth and softness. Nothing is more tragic than a cold tortilla.

Tortillas are essentially a gift. Every time you take one, you open the lid, unwrap the cloth, take the tortilla, and cover them back up. The experience is like opening a present at Christmas every time you reach for one. In that way, the next person can also open the gift given to us by tradition, nature, and most importantly—God.

The process of making tortillas is wrought with sweat, love, and necessity. Made with the hands of women who would wake up at 4 in the morning alongside the Sun to start the process. I'm beginning to understand what Ama meant and am grateful for the memories and lessons she passed on. So next time you find yourself eating a taco, remember...it comes from a sacred place of knowing and it is a gift, meant to be shared.