Homesickness and its Cures (6/17)

Of course, I'm used to being away from home. I am no further now than I am when I'm at school, but I am used to being home for the summer, and I prefer my mom's method of cooking spaghetti and my dad's biscuit and gravy over my own.

I felt my first flare of homesickness today, with it being father's day. Last year I loaded my three younger siblings into the car and we got him a gift together, roaming the mall until we found what were looking for. This year, a blotchy, abbreviated phone conversation with the older of my two brothers determined our plan of action.

I wanted to be home- to go to the waterpark and eat a home cooked dinner and watch as my dad opened our cards and presents.

So, in an effort to fight this heavy  potentially crippling emotion, I do what I normally do- I called home and woke my dad up. I went into town to pick up a few things from the grocery store and used the opportunity to have phone service to call my dad. Keeping with tradition, I kept him from sleeping in.

Another of my remedies is cooking my favorites. As I've said, my versions can't compete, but I do my best. I made biscuits and gravy, a meal passed down from my mom's stepdad, Grandpa Bob, to my own father. He cooks it on a skillet and always beckons me away from my Sunday coffee to watch how he browns the sausage and adds the flour, and to pop open the biscuit containers with a cry of 'Hassaaaan, chop!'

Today, I set two lonely biscuits on a pie pan and sat quietly at the table, watching a movie with the small crowd that resides in the bunkhouse. I ate, and while delicious, still didn't compare to weekends at home, with my younger siblings charging the table like a herd of small elephants, and my brother emerging from sleep slowly, lumbering down the stairs and as we point and yell 'It lives!'

In addition to making my dad's classic Sunday breakfast, I had planned on making my dad's signature salsa. Tomatoes, cilantro, onion, serrano, and lemon for good measure. His recipe normally calls for avacado, as well, but I left it out so the giant bowl I made would last better in the fridge. It's odd to have so much food around everyday. I made half a package of sausage for my breakfast and had leftovers. At home, we use two and nothing ever remains.

After deciding to make salsa, I decided to use tacos as the vehicle. This is the thing that made not being home so much more  miserable- I couldn't find corn tortillas anywhere.

I checked three stores, but the only Mexican food the state of Virginia recognizes comes in either a Taco Bell or Old El Paso box. After going out of my way to the Food Lion, I sat in the Silverado feeling very much like a child. 'I can't be home to spend time with my family, and now I can't even find tortillas?' Was the gist of my mental wails. After chatting with my dad, I just sat there and tried to keep from bawling. It was a desperate, childish emotion, one that stemmed from wanting just that one. thing. And not being able to get it because life is cruel sometimes. Now I really missed home, where corn tortillas (and tiendas) are plentiful and frequently home made.

As I tried to get over acting like a ten year old, I decided to return to Walmart to see if they had the Maseca to make my own. I figured this would be better anyway. and incredibly, I found a bag and trotted home, momentarily appeased but ultimately irritated at myself for coming somewhere so... far. Even in Poughkeepsie, NY, I can ride my bike to the panaderia for pan dulces or waddle over to the Casa Latina for some gansitos and manzanitas.

However, my first attempt, unguided by my Abuelita's expert teachings turned out miserably. I started well enough, my first tortilla was bite-sized, so I scarfed it down, as I often did at home. Often, half of the tortillas I would make with my Abuelita wouldn't make it to the table, having been intercepted by my face. Rolling the dough, singeing my fingers, and stuffing my face eased my pains with their familiarity, but every tortilla after that first fell apart.

They were too dry, without a press, I couldn't get them thin enough, and they were also sticking to the pan. I added water and tried again with a cookie sheet, but I had added too much water and they still stuck, and my patience was gone. It took everything I had to not throw a fit, and the main reason I didn't was because there would have been witnesses. After doing such a terrible job at being brown, I didn't want anyone to see my cry.

So I just tossed the mushy mess and made my salsa instead, which turned out quite well. I made my taco meat, which was pretty tasty, and borrowed a few tortillas for dinner.

Three tacos and a coke zero later, I was content. A few hours later I tried again, this time carefully eyeing the dough and rolling it liberally between my hands. Using a makeshift press and a nonstick pan, I managed to churn out eight ragged, yet delicious tortillas. The whole affair was tiring and frustrating, but I guess that really made the experience feel like home. So tomorrow, I'll go to work, and after, I'll eat leftover tacos on homemade tortillas and call to see how the water park was.