My grandmother hates having her picture taken. Absolutely hates it.
It’s OK though. I don’t need to take a portrait of her to tell a story about her.
I just need her hands.
Hands that tell an impossible amount of stories.
Her hands, in all honesty, are magical. Her hands have been pointed at us in anger; they have hugged us when in need; they have caressed our faces with love; they have fed us; they have told us stories; they have held us as babies, they have smacked us across the head; they have made us tortillas; her hands, have completely raised whole generations.
I would not be here without her hands.
A lot of us wouldn’t.
Ever since I was a small boy I can remember my Grandma making us tortillas from scratch. Actually, I can even remember my great-parents making us tortillas from scratch. Of course, when I was younger I didn’t really appreciate it as much.
But now, sitting around and watching them make them as they tell stories and gossip is one of my favorite things in the entire world.
So here ya go.
Come make some tortillas with my grandmother and my Tia Paquita.