When I was a boy, my grandparents’ best friends were Roman and Eva Mendez. They lived about half a mile from us, over one sand hill in the tiny village of Anapra, New Mexico. We visited them once a week or so, and usually sat around for an hour or two, in the manner of that time, just to drink soft drinks and enjoy each other’s company. It was a little disorienting because Roman and my grandfather spoke Spanish—Roman with a strong Chihuahuan accent and my grandfather in a kind of Oklahoma version of border Spanglish. Meanwhile, my grandmother and Eva spoke English, of a sort, in a lively uninterruptable chatter. It was hard for me to follow either conversation with any precision.
I tagged along for the tortillas.
Eva Mendez had a way with tortillas. Even in a culture that revered this traditional flatbread, Eva’s tortillas were a revelation, a monument, a tribute to everything that alkaline water and white flour can become.
Oh, yeah. Alkaline water, white flour, and the irreplaceable lard.
A lot of families already were using canned shortening, but not Eva. Her tortillas were made with lard, and they were delicious. I didn’t want butter on them. I didn’t want honey. The unleavened white bread, warm from the skillet, was more tantalizing than any cookie, candy, or cake. It was, simply, better than anything.
Surely there was skill involved in making a tortilla that good. I haven’t had another like it in my life. But there was also a secret ingredient: lard, pure and simple.
Bryan Welch, GRIT publisher
Topeka, Kansas