Big Chicas Don't Cry(101)

I’d had many tamales in my lifetime—both homemade and at restaurants. It never mattered how they were wrapped or what was inside; if the masa was crap to start with, then so was the entire tamale. It didn’t escape me that our masa was what it was because of Welita.

An hour later, our tamale assembly line was in full production mode. I had started to spoon pieces of shredded chicken and slivers of green chiles onto a corn husk when I realized there was no jack cheese to put on top. I looked around the table and inside every bowl. I walked inside the house and found my abuela pulling a box of raisins out of the cupboard.

“Abuela, there’s no jack cheese outside. Do you have it in here?”

My abuela stopped and put her hand to her forehead. “Ay, el queso! No, mija, I forget the cheese. Marta! Marta!”

My mom came running in and asked what was wrong. In Spanish, my grandmother explained that she forgot to buy the cheese for the chicken tamales and asked her to take her to the store at once.

“Mama Garcia, it’s okay. We don’t need it.”

“Yes, we do,” I said. My mom turned to me and raised her eyebrows.

Her voice was slow and determined. “No, we don’t, Erica. Abuela is busy, and so is everyone else. We can go without it this one year.”

Once my mom raised those eyebrows of hers, it usually meant that was the end of the conversation. But this time I wasn’t done talking.

“No, we can’t, Mom. We always have cheese in the chicken tamales. I’ll go to the store,” I insisted.

I turned to walk away, but my mom grabbed my wrist. She told my abuela to go to the patio because one of my tías needed her. After she left, my mother let go of my wrist.

“Erica, I already said we didn’t need the cheese. Why are you arguing with me?”

And for no good reason, I just started blubbering like a two-year-old right there in the middle of my abuela’s kitchen.

“Because we do need it! It will be different if we don’t have the cheese. And it’s already different, Mom. Don’t you see? Doesn’t anyone care? This year is already different because she’s not here!”

With that I stormed out of the kitchen, past all my tías and cousins, and into my abuela’s backyard.

I stood there in the middle of the tangerine and fig trees and wept into my hands.

“Were they mean to you too?”

I looked down and realized I wasn’t the only one crying underneath the trees. Araceli—my tío Ricardo’s daughter—walked out from the shadows of the branches. I could see her brown eyes were wet and shiny, and her nose matched her pink pouty lips.

“Who?”

Araceli pointed to my other cousins who were running around the backyard. “Were they mean to you like they were mean to me?”

“No. No one was mean to me, sweetie.”

She nodded sadly. “They told me I’m too little to play with them. But I’m not. I’m seven now.”

I smiled through my tears. “They’re just being silly. Why don’t you go inside and get some hot chocolate, okay?”

That seemed to cheer her up, and she went inside the patio just as my mom walked out. I wiped my tears away and folded my arms across my chest.

“What’s going on with you, Erica?” She stood in front of me and clasped her hands over mine. “I know this can’t just be about the cheese.”

I didn’t answer because I was afraid I’d start blubbering again.

“Look, this is a hard day for everyone. Especially your abuela. She’s worked day and night for the past week trying to get everything ready for the tamales. She called me at one a.m. this morning to remind me for the tenth time to bring more foil pans.” My mother’s voice broke. “She’s been so worried about making the tamales perfect this year, but we all know she’s really just distracting herself so she won’t think about Welita. And reminding her that she forgot something like buying the cheese, well, she didn’t really need to hear it at that moment. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “I just miss her so much, Mom.”

She hugged me. “I know, mija. I know.”

We stood there for a while just crying and holding each other. My body was shaking, and it had nothing to do with the December cold. Eventually, she let go and dug a Kleenex out from the front pocket of her apron. She wiped her eyes and then mine. Even though my tears were gone, my heart was still heavy.

“Mom, I know you think it’s silly that I wanted the cheese so badly. But I’m afraid if we start changing things, then they won’t be her tamales anymore, and we’ll lose a part of her.”

My mom smiled a little. “Erica, what makes them Welita’s tamales—is the masa. It is and will always be her recipe.”

Evidently satisfied that I wasn’t going to break down again, my mom hugged me one more time and told me to come back inside. I told her to give me a few minutes and I’d be right in. As she walked away, I felt like there was one more thing I needed to know.

“Mom,” I called, and she turned around. “Do you think we’re going to be okay?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Of course, mija. Welita taught us well.”

We both knew we weren’t talking about the tamales anymore.

Through the windows of my abuela’s enclosed patio, I saw the faces of the people I loved most in this world. I smiled at the sound of their laughter and their voices each trying to talk over one another. It had been a long, rough year for everyone, and there were still some challenges ahead. But today was Christmas Eve, and all that mattered was being together.