Tortilla Sun by Jennifer Cervantes Read Free Book Online Page A

kitchen.
    I stuffed the letter in the drawer and hurried toward the kitchen for my first
tortilla
-making lesson.
    As I dashed around the corner toward the kitchen, I slammed my forehead right into the top of the doorframe.
Wham!
I rubbed my aching head. Nana’s hundred-year-old house had narrow, short doorways designed to slow enemy attacks during times of war.Plus it helped hold the heat and cool in, but I liked the battle reason better.
    Nana laughed. “I can always hear you coming, Izzy. When will you learn to slow down and duck?”
    The doorways sure would’ve been great protection against tall enemies. But Nana, with her four-foot-eleven-inch frame, had no problems walking through them, while I had a throbbing head.
    In the kitchen, sunlight bounced across the walls, and the soothing scent of cranberry and lavender filled the air. Just walking into this room made me feel good, like lying in the warm sun and squishing my toes into soft sand.
    “Are you ready,
mija
?”
    “Yep.”
    “Then wash your hands and make sure to say the Hail Mary
tres
times to get all the germs off.”
    Suddenly, my throat throbbed like I’d swallowed a baseball. “But I don’t know it.”
    Nana raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know the Hail Mary? Didn’t your mama ever take you to church?”
    I shook my head, feeling small and stupid.
    She took a deep breath. “We can say it together.” As I washed, Nana recited the words, “Hail Mary, full of grace …”
    By the third time, I had memorized the last bit of the prayer.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
    Nana wrapped a worn yellow apron around my waist and gave me a squeeze.
    “Now, first thing to know is that
tortilla
making is a lost art, but you don’t ever want to buy
tortillas
from the store,
mija
,” she said. “They taste like rubber.”
    Nana pinned her hair up on her head with a pencil. “And the second thing is that
tortillas
are like life. It is best to keep it simple. For
tortillas
we need only white flour, lard, and hot water.”
    I sat on a lopsided wooden stool at the edge of the counter and watched her small, robust hands mix the ingredients. She prepared two separate bowls, one for each of us.
    “Did you ever teach Mom to do this?” I asked.
    Nana nodded. “I tried. Now put your hands into the bowl and knead the dough.”
    I pushed, pulled, twisted, and squeezed. But my dough didn’t look anything like Nana’s. It felt warm and gooey and stuck to my hands like glue. “I don’t think this is right.”
    Nana chuckled and set my bowl aside, then handed me her own. “Your mama never liked cooking. She always preferred being outdoors. Here. Knead this dough.”
    I wiped my sticky fingers across my apron and tried again. I pinched the dough between my fingers.
    “Ah,
mijita
. It’s not Play-Doh! Do not press so hard. Be more delicate. Just let it take shape.”
    “Maybe I’m not meant to make
tortillas
.”
    “You can do anything you set your heart to.” We started again, but this time she helped me. She pressed my hands into the dough. Her hands felt like smooth pieces of glass.
    “
Tortilla
making seems hard at first—it’s no bowl of
sopaipillas
, but keep at it and you will be a master
tortilla
maker in no time at all.” Nana smiled and pointed to the bowl. “
Mira
, no stickies. Let’s get Martha now.”
    “Who’s Martha?”
    Nana raised her eyebrows like I should know this. “She is one of the patron saints of cooks.” She took the plastic St. Martha statue from the windowsill and sat her next to the bowl. She stood maybe three inches high. One hand was placed over her chest and the other carried a cross. Then, Nana reached into a small cabinet, removed an amber spice bottle, and sprinkled something over the dough.
    “This is a very special recipe.
La sagrada
. And this is the secret ingredient. People from all over Albuquerque come for these
tortillas
. It gets so I can’t keep up at times. But I only use the secret