But more so, I loved her turning to me, saying, “You're fired, vayase. She let me roll small tortillas on her wooden board. I remember being five years old, making tortillas with her. I am eternally grateful that I learned to cook from her-and that she had the patience to put up with me. Cooking was a gift of love you gave to yourself and others. When I use her recipes, I sometimes look around the kitchen, as if she is here, waiting with a toalla, a kitchen towel, draped over her shoulder, waiting to eat. They sold the menudo to raise money for flowers for the feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe. She cooked with her comadres, making menudo to sell after mass. At that moment I learned, not by words but by action, to serve others, to give freely, even when you have a large brood of your own to feed. I recall her making me take a full plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and corn to a homeless man who was sitting outside on the stairs to our building. She constantly offered food to anyone who walked through her doors or sat on the stoop. She was renowned for her cooking in our small barrio in Detroit. You could stock a pantry and fill your kitchen with homemade food.īut her cooking was also tied to being a traditional Mejicana, where culture, faith, identity and being a woman, were also a mezcla. It meant you could take care of yourself. For her, being a “buena cocinera,” a “good cook,” as I often teased her, was important for many reasons. She believed in my ability to become a good cook. For some reason I was always determined to learn how to cook from her, so I let her tell me again and again what to do in the kitchen. I eventually figured out what size she wanted for them. If I cut them into pieces with a knife, she said, “No, no, no,” and shook her head. If the pieces were too big, she told me to rip them up smaller. When we made migas, she handed me the bag of corn tortillas wrapped in paper and told me to rip them up. My mother taught me to cook that dish and many others. Eventually the smells of the green pepper and garlic catch up, and the mezcla, the mixture of flavors fills the air. The best corn tortillas are made from three ingredients, corn, lime and water, but when the lime is fried it lets off a peculiar smell of bitter tones.
I sautéed them for a minute and then gently folded in the eggs and waited for them to cook, stirring the dish occasionally. While the tortillas fried, I chopped onion, garlic and green pepper on an old cutting board mi mamá bought for me years ago.Īfter the tortillas were crispy, I added the vegetables.
There are a myriad of ways to make migas, a traditional Mexican dish.
I ripped the tortillas up and placed them in a cast iron pan of hot olive oil and cooked them until they were golden colored.