O ver the past three weeks, I’ve become a man too preoccupied with masa to be taken seriously.
My December has been spent obsessed with tamales (and similar dishes), embarking on a world tour contained entirely within Houston, circling the Beltway in my trusty Nissan and chasing this deceptively ordinary staple food. After all, this month is peak season for tamales here and throughout much of the Western hemisphere, and you can’t go to the grocery store or happy hour (I’m thinking of that one guy who hawks tamales at every Montrose bar) this time of year without someone trying to sell you at least a half dozen.
And when you do give in (because your first choice should always be to get tamales from your friends’ mothers instead of buying them), you mostly get the same thing: steamed pockets of pork and masa tucked into corn husks. Or beans and cheese are good, too…