As you can tell from my lovely demeanor last week I am not someone who always plays well with others. But my knees are feeling stable today, although last week I was benched AGAIN after my grand ONE night return to tango lessons. Yes, I know, weights. . .
Anyway, I’m feeling more human today, shot some new photos for Dahlila Found and was just writing up details when the doorbell rang. I rarely answer the doorbell. Welcome friends use the side door. The front door seems reserved for annoying folk selling God in an array of faiths; lost drunks from the liquor store down the street; people with BIG stories about cars out of gas, kids at home, lost husbands, wives, girlfriends, if only I’d donate $1. 67 all would be well–back down at the liquor store.
This time, however, it was the kid who is selling tamales. He came ringing last week after dark and I shooed him away through the peep hole, not kindly. And yet he’s back. What? Didn’t get the hint the first time? But for whatever reason, daylight hours, hunger, family on the street, I started w/no and then said yes. What the hell. If you’re going to eat tamales, wouldn’t you rather eat them from grandma’s kitchen? Grandma looked very grandma like, hair tied back in a scarf, very round and bosomy as I imagine friendly grandmothers to be. She waved. She even had business cards–I don’t even have business cards–“Homemade Tamales: All Kind, Everyday” w/a logo of an Italian chef holding a pizza.
So, I bought six chicken tamales for $8. They were $7.50 but the kid was looking more miserable than what I saw in the dark last week so I’ll call it a cheap tip. When grandma handed me the tin foil wrapped package it was hot, not microwave hot, or reheated hot, but just-out-of-the-tamale-pot hot. They were individually wrapped in paper over corn husks, folded, not tied.
There really isn’t much to say about a chicken tamale. It just is. Whatever you cover it w/is what flavor it takes on and all I had was cold pineapple salsa from Trader Joes. Not my first choice. I ate more than half, gave Zephyr a piece of chicken and declared myself done. I actually had eaten earlier, so I wasn’t famished, more curious. I’ll share the other five. Five is a lot of tamales. If they come again I’ll try the chili, I think he said. Now, that should have a flavor all its own. Suddenly, my neighborhood feels just a tad bit better. Just a little! So, now the only people I will answer the door for are Grandma’s tamale posse and the girl scouts wheeling cookies. That’s it. Everyone else, keep on walkin’, there’s sympathy down thata’ way.