When I was 20, I had lived in California for a little over two years. Not able to go home to Washington, my sister and I accepted an invitation to spend Christmas with my boyfriend's family. I had met them before but was a little nervous about spending the holidays with them. My boyfriend assured me that we'd have fun and, he said with great pride, we'd really enjoy his mom's Christmas specialty - homemade tamales.
I smiled and said, "Great!" Inside though, I asked, why? It seemed like an awful lot of work and I really didn't understand what tamales had to do with Christmas.
In the days leading up to Christmas, my boyfriend regaled me again and again with stories of how delicious his mom's tamales were. He told me that she started them early in the morning and that they were so much work she only made them on Christmas. He told me that she'd learned to make them from her mother-in-law since they're his dad's favorite. I finally decided it must be a family thing and began to get a little excited to try them.
On Christmas Day, I walked into a house smelling of a bake ham, pies and something spicy I couldn't quite identify. The family welcomed us with open arms and we spent most of the early afternoon chatting and watching movies. When it came time to eat dinner, his mom took charge. She ushered us to our chairs and reached for her casserole pan, dishing a strange yellowish brown rectangle on my plate. It looked like a burrito with ridges. I poked at it with my fork, but couldn't figure out how I was supposed to eat it. Glancing to the side, I saw my boyfriend slice his open and dig in with a smile on his face. Finally, embarrassed, I whispered, "What's this?"
"That's a tamale." He looked at me quizzically.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, embarrassed. His family looked up from their food in expectation. And, as usually happens when I'm uncomfortable, I rushed ahead. "When you said tamale, I thought you meant a tamale."
"These are tamales."
"No. Like a real tamale."
His mom stared. "This is a real tamale."
"No. Like the red candies. You know..." I finished weakly, "...hot tamales?" The table erupted in laughter as my face turned thirty-four shades of red.
I spent two more Christmases with his family and every year, I cringed when his mom served tamales. And every year she winked when she asked if I liked my tamales hot.
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