A Mediation on Mole Sauce or How To Make The Perfect Tamale
Growing up, spending my summers and winters in Mexico; I watched my mother, my aunts, my godmother and my grandmother navigate through many celebrations; without a single outburst of bitter sibling resentment or eruptions of pent-up family anger — and believe me; there is and were plenty of unresolved family issues orbiting around in my godmother’s world.
Doña Riena is my godmother and to this day, at 100 years old, she is still my inspiration. Between the tios who indulged a little too much on the vino; and the tias who micromanaged the kitchen; to my Madrina Riena’s ridiculously entertaining stories of our family history – my holidays have become about finding balance between braving the family members you purposely avoid (no more vino for you) and cherishing every minute with those you wished you could see more often. My family gathered around drinking and eating, and for the most part remained happy during our family gatherings. Sure, some of us may have self-medicated with alcohol, food or both, but in general my mother and my godmother worked their endless tag team maneuvers to make sure everyone was happy.
One fall, during my junior year in high school, my mother frantically called me into the kitchen to tell me about the unexpected pregnancy of a certain underage cousin. With an opened letter in hand she exclaimed “How could this happen? Bendito, after all your Tia has done for her? Que le pasa? Dios mio, this is not good!”
I understood, as did she, that this could be the beginning of the end, so we braced ourselves for that international collect phone call that would announce the cancellation of this year’s family gathering.
This pregnancy represented a lot: years of dedicated parental guidance filled with difficult choices; the tuition payments to private school; the sacrifices made in order to give their only daughter the opportunities they never had; sex; the absolute stupidity of not having used contraceptives; and the sheer obliviousness – at least I thought – of the parents to assume that their only daughter, the same daughter who lived and breathed anything Madonna was actually a virgin. Needless to say, the hopes and dreams of both parents, as well as those of this teenage girl were now flushed down the toilet.
This pregnancy had created a family divide so wide that I had convinced myself there was no way anyone could be so dense as to accept an invitation to a holiday family gathering that would place them right smack center of one of the biggest lucha libre wrestling matches ever — the enraged quarreling parents, an emotionally detached pregnant teenage girl versus the members of a hyper-critical and judgmental extended family. Yup, this would be the year that no one showed up.
The phone call never came. Instead, following my godmother’s lead, my mother extended invitations for the families to come together. And we did. We gathered, broke bread, drank the Kool-Aid, and avoided the giant elephant in the room.
Years later, I watched in amazement as both my mother and godmother continued to keep the peace, regardless of the circumstances. To both, there was nothing getting in the way of bringing the families together. It wasn’t until my mother’s final years on this earth that I finally learned the family secret for a perfect holiday gathering.
Santeria. No, just kidding.
Tamales. Yes, Tamales are packets of corn dough (known as masa) filled with a savory or sweet filling and typically wrapped in corn husks or banana leaves. Tamales are a holiday tradition in most Mexican families. And in my family, whether it’s Christmas, New Year’s Day, or a summer wedding, tamales are expected.
Making tamales is a long, complex, and multilayered, (if not a multitasking process). Between inspecting and separating the good corn husks from the bad, washing and soaking the husks, the constant watch over a simmering mole, the roasting of meats for your filling, and pounding out the masa, it’s definitely a juggling act. Gathered around the dining table, spreading the masa on a corn husk, adding the meat, followed by a dollop of mole, then carefully folding the corn husk into a nice even rectangle gave everyone a sense of community, belonging and made everyone feel needed.
It didn’t matter whether you actively participated in the actual making of a tamale or not, as long as you were in attendance, you were part of the team. Maybe you helped by driving a tia to the mercado for corn husks, or perhaps you tagged along on that two hour bus ride to Puebla for the mole. Whatever your contribution was towards this day, both my mother and godmother made sure you understood that your role was just as important as the roles of those making the tamales.
And in that spirit you felt — no matter what this tia said about that tia or what this tio did to that tio — everyone was in it together, and in that moment, we were all united for one reason: to make the perfect tamale. No one was going to let anything get in the way of assembling the tamales. Family squabbles big or small, underage pregnancies, or just simple built up resentment – whatever emotional baggage you had that day – it was checked at the door.
As I turned a bit older and had advanced my way up the tamale assembly line, I decided to start making my own tamales. It was my first year out of college and with my godmother’s blessing, I decided to skip this year’s holiday gathering. It was a new decade in the Big Apple. The Koch scandals and racial tensions were behind us, Dinkins’ gorgeous mosaic was on the horizon, and I was inspired to start my own tradition, adding to the growing mosaic of the New York City.
Recreating the experiences from my tamale making memories was not easy at first; I remember how difficult it was to find most of the ingredients. I found myself traversing up and down on the C train, then west to east on the L, in search of corn husks, fresh masa and fresh mole paste only to find out my options were quite limited. My mole sauce eventually had to be shipped in from California. It would be several years before I’d finally be able to find mole paste in NYC.
Back then, New York City was not as populated with Mexicans as it is today. In fact, according to the U.S. Census, the number of Mexicans living in New York has more than quintupled from 61,772 in 1990 to 319,263 in 2010, making the Mexican community the fastest growing group of Hispanics on the East Coast. Do a Google search now, and you’ll find thousands of entries for mole sauce recipes and thousands of local listings for Mexican food and taquerias. But this was not the case in 1990.
As I started on my solo culinary journey that winter, I soon recognized that the need of having others with you on this journey was not only to facilitate the process, but to create a connection, a bond, a union that was set in purpose culminating in complete resolution. Tamaladas were deeper than just a couple of people spreading corn meal onto a dried leaf wrapper. These were well-organized productions, with months of effective and efficient planning. Who was traveling where to purchase the mole paste – or even better – who was making the mole? People were assigned duties and given checklists. Everything from soaking and grinding the hominy to buying the papel picado and paper flower decorations that would adorn the dining room table and walls — everything had its deadline. These were EVENTS, and as such required a keen sense of detail, a skill by which paying close attention during tamale making, one could and would acquire.
Tamale making eventually became my metaphor for life. Individually, each person participates by being in the moment, but collectively the task created an energy, a fortitude, a resilience and courage to keep going, regardless of the circumstances. People working together to do more work than if their individual efforts were added together. This was my mother’s and godmother’s secret. It wasn’t about whose mole was better, or where the masa came from, it was about an amalgam of ingredients and verve, that when they came together would make the perfect tamale. I learned that like life itself, tamale making is a reflective, and meditative process and as in life; the more you repeat a process, the more you become aware and learn from your mistakes, the better person you become and the brighter your surroundings are for it. I not only learned the secret to a creamier mole, a moister masa, and the perfect tamale, but I learned the secret to a happier life.
This holiday season, in tribute to mi ama, mi madrina, and mis tias, as well as all the other women who helped raise me and shape my life, I dig deep into my roots and offer you my recipe for Short Ribs and Mole Poblano Tamales.
Here is what you will need, the ingredients being in order of preparation: first, clean and prep corn husks, then prep and cook meat filling, followed by making your masa, then lastly prepping your mole sauce. Once your these steps are done, you’ll be ready to assemble your tamales. Don’t be scared – live and learn.
STEP ONE: CORN HUSKS. Dried corn husks can be found in any Hispanic food store, the international aisle of your grocery store or online. You’ll need to clean and soak these, preferably overnight, or if you’re old school, this will be the first thing you do at 5 a.m. as you sip your café con leche, and eat your pan dulce. This process is not hard. Simply separate the leaves, inspect them to make sure there is no mold or silk, then place them in a large bowl or pot of hot water. Let these soak for a good 4 hours. One package of dried corn husks can make approximately 2 dozen tamales.
STEP TWO: MEAT FILLING. Short Ribs
2 lbs of short ribs
2 tbsp olive oil
1 chopped onion
1 cup beef broth
salt and pepper
(NOTE: While sorting and soaking the corn husks, take out your short ribs and let them get to room temperature and preheat oven to 250 degrees. Once the ribs are at room temperature, sprinkle with salt and pepper.)
Out of all the steps involved, this is the easiest. I am using approximately two pounds of short ribs, around four meaty rib/chucks. Using a dutch oven pan, place on stovetop on medium flame, drizzle olive oil, and wait for the oil to heat up. Watch your pan because depending on the olive oil you’re using, it can reach its smoking point rather fast and burn. Once the oil is hot add your short ribs and brown all sides; lowering the flame if needed to stop the oil from smoking. Remove the ribs, place on a dish, cover and set aside.
Add chopped onion to dutch oven pan, cover and sweat the onion for about two minutes. Uncover and stir, scraping all the caramelized bits of short rib off of bottom of pan. Continue stirring for another three minutes or until the onions are golden. Add one cup of broth to pan. Place cover back on pan and let simmer for two minutes. Add the short ribs to the pan, cover and place in your preheated oven. Set your timer for three hours.
Once done, remove the ribs from your pan and shred the meat, removing any extra fat. Place the shredded meat onto a dish and cover until ready to assemble your tamales
STEP THREE: MASA. That’s Spanish for dough. Here in the US, when Mexicans refer to masa, we mean ‘masa de maíz’, which is made from freshly prepared hominy. It’s used to make tortillas, pupusas, gorditas, arepas and many other Latin American dishes – but mostly to make tamales. It’s also available in a dried and powdered form – masa harina – Maseca, being the name of a leading commercial brand. You can buy the fresh hominy masa, which can be found at your local Mexican tortilleria/bakery. Or, you can make your own using the Maseca mix. If you’re using the mix, you’ll need additional ingredients to substitute and add to the mix. These ingredients are not necessary, as you can follow the instructions on the package, but I strongly suggest adding, they will make your masa moist and tastier. I am making my masa using Maseca.
2 cups of Maseca
1 ¼ cups of Vegetable broth
¼ cup of lard (melted)
1 tbsp of salt
1 tbsp of pepper
1 tps baking powder
In a bowl mix flour, salt, pepper and baking powder. Sparingly add the vegetable broth (do not use all of your broth) to the flour mix, kneading the dough. As the broth is absorbed, add the lard. Continue kneading, until the dough stops sticking to your fingers. The dough should be smooth and easy to spread. If it’s too dry you may need to add more of your broth. If it’s too wet, add a bit more corn flour.
Test the dough. Take a corn husk leaf and try spreading some of the masa onto it. If it does not spread easily, like peanut butter, then adjust as mentioned above.
Once it’s done and at the right consistency, cover the dough with a moist towel and set aside.
STEP FOUR: MOLE SAUCE. There are many different varieties of mole: Poblano, Oaxacan, Tlaxclan, Xicaño… too many to go into now, and frankly it’s a subject that requires its own chapter. For this recipe I used Poblano mole paste, as I find it the tastiest and simplest to work with. I buy it at Leon Bakery on Ninth Avenue and 48th Street, so if you’re in NYC, check them out. They’re a great source and have some wonderful Mexican baked goods as well.
1 ½ cups of mole paste
1 cup of beef broth
*2 to 3 heaping tablespoons of peanut butter
*Peanut butter is not necessary, but for those of you who cannot tolerate spicy food, the peanut butter reduces and neutralizes some of the spiciness. My Mother would make a batch like this for the kids in the family.
In a saucepan over low flame, add mole and stir in beef broth. Simmer (do not boil) and continuously stir until the mole sauce is smooth and creamy, about 15 to 20 minutes. Taste the mole and if needed add peanut butter, one tablespoon at a time, until you reach your desired taste. Continue stirring until creamy. Set aside.
FINAL STEP: Assemble your tamales. This is the fun part – the tamalada! Line up all your ingredients: corn husks, masa, shredded meat and mole sauce. You’ll also need a large deep pot with a cover and a steamer rack or basket. Place the steamer into a pot and add water until it reaches the bottom of the steamer. Now you are ready. Assemble your crew and get going!
Take a corn husk and spread some masa onto it. Add some shredded meat. Add a dollop of mole sauce. Fold over the left and right sides for the corn husk towards the middle, then fold the top of corn hush under. Place tamale into pot. Repeat.
Once all of your husks are filled, and your tamales are all in the pot, place the pot on a low flame and let steam for approximately 25 to 30 minutes. Check tamales, and when the husk peels off with ease, your tamales are done.
¡Buen Provecho! ¡Y Feliz Año Nuevo!
