I haven’t written about my cooking class in awhile, mostly because I was starting to feel really comfortable there.
I’d figured out the answers to the nagging doubts that used to send me running to Yuri or another classmate. Chile water thins out a thick salsa. The mole is done when little pools of fat form on top. When in doubt, blend a sauce extra-fine, especially if it’s going to be served with meat. Overall, I had finally learned to relax. Mexican cooking doesn’t leave that much room for error. If I made a mistake, I could fix it.
Then last week, that familiar, scared-of-messing-up-because-I’m-a-gringa side came back. I’d been gone for awhile — I had to take another trip to the States, which meant I’d missed several classes. My Spanish had gotten rustier. The theme of the class was tamales, but I didn’t feel like doing any metate-grinding (for once) so I signed up to make pineapple atole. It was a traditional atole made with masa and sugar.
Yuri had told us to dilute the masa first in water, so I put a big pot to boil on the stove and tossed in the lump of dough. Stirred it around a bit so it would dissolve.
Patty, one of my classmates, looked up from cleaning verdolagas (did you know there are sweet tamales made with verdolagas?) and she peered into my pot. “What did you put in there?”
“Masa and water.”
She shook her head. “No…”
Ana, another classmate, looked up. “Did you put the masa in there?”
What was the big deal? Yuri had said to dilute it.
Ana looked pained. She said we had we had to take the masa out right now, and she sped to the other side of the kitchen for a bowl and a strainer. While she was gone, Patty told me that I can’t just put the masa in the atole pot like that. I’d end up with hard bits of masa in my drink, or worse, a layer of hard masa stuck to the underside of the pot.
“You have to dissolve the masa like this,” she said, fishing out a lump of dough. She placed it in a bowl, added water and mushed the masa together with the tips of her fingers, until she had a think paste. “See? This is what I always do when I make my atole.”
Of course she does. And if I’d made atole before, I would’ve known that too. But I haven’t made atole before!
Feeling like a lame gringa, I strained the masa out of the pot and poured the yellowish, cloudy water back on the stove. I was still worried that I’d ruined the drink. The lump of masa and the water had already touched. Did that mean something? I asked Ana and she shook her head. (I thought I detected a “that was a dumb question” look in her eyes, but perhaps I was projecting. Ana is really nice.)
Patty told me to strain the paste to make sure there weren’t any hard bits hiding inside. Just as I was doing that, Yuri walked up. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Straining wasn’t part of our instructions.
“I know you didn’t say to do this,” I started, “but it’s that, I was wrong, I added the masa at the beginning, it was too early, I had to take it out…”
He stared at me. His eyes said, Foreign girl, what the hell are you talking about?
“You don’t have to strain the masa, if you diluted it well,” he finally said. He mentioned something about the pineapple pieces that I didn’t quite catch, and then he walked away.
Once my cloudy water had boiled, I poured in my masa paste, stirring vigorously so any hard bits could break down. Eventually the water looked smooth. I added the pineapple that Ana had blended and strained, and then the pineapple cubes. I added a little sugar and tasted as I went along, not wanting it too sweet. I stirred and stirred, trying to make sure the atole wouldn’t stick to the bottom.
Yuri wandered by again. “It’s better to use a wooden spoon. You can really scrape the bottom.”
Finally, about 40 minutes later, the masa had bubbled and thickened, and it was done. I tasted a bit — it was sweet but not too much, and faintly pineappley. The masa added this hearty, rich flavor, much more complex than the cornstarch atoles you usually get on the streets here.
A few students came up to me while we were eating our tamales. “Did you make the atole?”
“I helped,” I said. I couldn’t take credit — I’d almost ruined the drink.
“Está rico.”
I allowed myself to feel just a little proud. I was the one who added the sugar and scraped the pot, after all.
I’m sorry I don’t have a photo to show you, but I was too busy slurping it up. Recipe to come soon, once I make it at home.
Ay Niña,
Que bueno que te salio bien. It sounds like so much fun. I envy you.
Armando Piña (pero no soy tepache ni atole [lol])
Tocaya, you have taught me something new today. My grandparents (who were from Sonora and Chihuahua), my in-laws (who are from Jalisco) and I ALWAYS make atole with cornstarch (the unlfavored kind). I never would have thought to make atole using masa. I use masa to make champurrado, so I’m sure atole would be just as delicious. 🙂
That is a great story. My last post is actually about atole; the village nearby has a yearly tradition where atole is served in the morning during their annual fiesta.
I’ve never made it, but I have hit similar speedbumps in cooking here. One was ridiculous; I bought these wheel shaped dried food that I assumed was pasta. I boiled it, served it with sauce, and my boyfriend and I each choked down a few bites before throwing it in the compost. A few months ago I asked my friend about it, and she looked at me like I was absolutely insane.
Know what I’m talking about? If you fry the pinwheels, they puff up like cheetos. The flavor Brian and I ate as pasta was chicharrón. Awesome.
Marie: That is the best story ever. (Although I’m sorry you had to eat a few bites.) I don’t think you were entirely out of line — the little pinwheel thingies do look like pasta, albeit a very strange orange-colored variety.
Lesley, what a funny your post jajaj Once you learn to prepare atole de masa, you will be able to cook different flavors: tamarindo, naranja agria, plátano…
But tha pineapple atole de masa is my favorite!
You do not need to take lessons Watch my blog
Saludos!
COMO HACER ATOLE DE MASA
Thanks for the tip Nora!
I’m never surprised at what we Mexicans can do with masa. Any excuse for dessert and even better when you can turn dessert into a breakfast, right?
I’m curious if you could have gotten away with slowly dissolving your masa with enough whisking over very low heat right directly into your pot of water, although I see the benefits of dissolving it first, kind of like working with miso paste.
I like the idea of fresh fruit purees to flavor atole. Can’t wait to see the recipe.
I think whisking on low heat might work, but I’m not sure how fast the masa cooks, or how quickly lumps would form. The foolproof method is probably dissolving it first in a bowl. Agree with you on the fruit purees — the possibilities are endless. I have some mango in the fridge that’s crying out to be used…
I meant to ask you how your cooking classes were going. Glad they’re keeping you on your toes!
I had a few chucles with this post. I was wondering why you were not around.
Yep, it’s been a hectic past few months for me. I miss blogging and hopefully I’ll be at the computer more often from now on.
I cannnot remember If I have ever before made a masa atole but somehow (and please don´t feel wrong about this), somehow I just new you have to disolve-dilute it with water and not in the water.
Maybe is something I have seen so many times on the puestos de la calle that I just know that.
I guess sometimes all this la-gringa-dice-que-sabe-cocinar-mexicano can be quite overwhelming, right?.
But who cares, if your atole está rico.
Heidi: Funny that you automatically knew about dissolving the atole. It’s just one of those things — some stuff Mexicans just know, and I don’t because I wasn’t born here. I don’t necessarily feel bad about it, but I’m realizing just how many little tidbits like this exist in the Mexican cooking cannon. (Like, half of what I’m learning in cooking class.)
holy crap, me comí la k del new…!! sorry.
JUST DISCOVERED YOUR BLOG. i AM NOT A FOODIE, BUT EVERYTHING i’VE READ SO FAR IS A DELIGHT. i’VE LIVED IN BAJA NORTE SINCE ’07 AND I GUESS MY CONNECTION TO THE GREAT MEXICANO CULTURE IS MUSIC AND ART. i KNOW YOU’RE BUSY, sENORA tELLEZ; BUT KEEP IT GOING, LADY. yOU’RE UNA TESORO.
Hi Leslie,
I can’t tell you how much I’ve also enjoyed your blog since I discovered it a few weeks ago, and it’s my little treat now.
I lived in D.F. from ’83- ’89 (you know, you meet someone on holiday, come back to Toronto, sell your house, give up your job…etc.)where we married, had our daughters, etc.
I love food. I love Mexican food – and that’s what took me there in the first place. Whenever I felt lonely for English, I’d just read Diana Kennedy’s books. Later, I’d go to Sanborn’s and get magazines.
Anyway….you’re doing really well. Congratulations!
I think the best way to integrate into a country is to gain access to its kitchens. Women or men instruct you on the culture as you learn their food preparation. It’s invaluable. I took classes while there too, and you learn to do without all the gadgets we have here.
Have you discovered the series of cookbooks called “Y La Comida Se Hizo….” and there are about 10 or 12 volumes in it now? They are Mexican treasures, put out by the government in the ’80’s for those who eat comida tipica.
Salud to you and your estancia in Mexico.
Daphne