Tamale

I hear the cry in the distance coming closer. Peeking over the balcony I see the Tamale Woman walking down the street pulling her cart of goods. It's Sunday morning and the city is quiet except for her voice echoing between the buildings. Her voice is strong and clear. With a kind of musical intonation she cries “tamale, tamale, tamale” pauses then cries it again. In Hispanic countries this is a traditional way to announce your goods. In Spanish it's called “pregon” or “to hawk”.

She pauses, and looks around to see if anyone will come buy her tamales. Sometimes her little girl is walking with her, up and down the streets shouting out. On Sunday it is traditional for the man to take care of breakfast and sure enough, a man hustles out of a building and up to her. They barter for a moment then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a steaming bundle wrapped in green banana leaves. He tosses the tamale from hand to hand while he hustles away.

Each country seems to have a different formula for making their tamales. My favorite is a Mexican tamale. Colombian tamales are really not that good in my opinion. Inside the banana leaves a bland corn meal mush holds part of a chicken and some carrots. You never know if you will get the leg or thigh or if you are lucky a small breast. Like most Colombian food, the blandness just doesn't excite me. But hearing her voice call out every Sunday morning has become an expected nuance to my morning. She is faithful, she does not change, she is there.

- Kris