the bag of masa harina sat on my counter for a week before I touched it. every day I walked by like, “today’s the day.” nope. I’d make tea, scroll my phone, tell myself I didn’t have the energy. ridiculous really, because it’s just water, salt, flour. four things. not complicated. except in my head, tortillas have this weight to them. like if I mess them up, I’m insulting every abuela who’s ever pressed dough in her palms.
the first time I tried, I made a mess so bad my neighbor thought something exploded. flour everywhere, smoke alarm screaming, me waving a dish towel around while crouching over a pan of stiff, pale disks that looked like sad coasters. ate one out of spite. crunchy on the edges, raw in the middle. even the dog gave me side eye.
I never realized how violent flour can be. it sneaks everywhere. I wiped the counter three times and still found white handprints on the fridge the next morning. one sneeze and the whole kitchen looked like a busted fire extinguisher. I caught my reflection in the oven door—flour streak across my cheek like war paint.
the tortillas themselves… lumpy. too thick, then too thin. one ripped in the press, another stuck so hard I ended up scraping it off with a spatula like wallpaper.
the press. don’t even get me started. I bought the cheap kind from a corner shop. squeaks every time I push down, leaves dents instead of circles. sometimes the dough slides sideways and I end up with a tortilla shaped like South America. I tell myself it’s rustic. deep down, I know it’s just broken.
a friend has this heavy cast-iron press. one smooth push, perfect circle every time. I watched her in envy at a BBQ. her kids running around, dogs barking, and she just casually flipping flawless tortillas while I stood there holding a beer, jealous. I came home and tried again with my squeaky aluminum one. results? let’s just say I finished the night eating chips instead.
they talk about the puff. “you know you did it right if it puffs.” my tortillas rarely puff. I lean over the pan, staring, waiting for a miracle. once it happened by accident — dough ballooned up like a pillow, I gasped out loud like I’d witnessed a birth. nearly dropped my spatula in excitement. I’ve been chasing that high ever since.
I keep saying it’s four ingredients, but it’s never four. it’s the scraps of plastic bag I cut to line the press. it’s the cast iron skillet I forgot to season. it’s the endless dishtowels I dirty trying to keep them warm. suddenly my “simple” recipe has turned into laundry and pan-scrubbing.
shopping for ingredients is its own comedy. I walk in for masa harina, walk out with hot sauce, chips, maybe some chocolate bars, but no masa. once I ran back just before closing, hair frizzed out, wild-eyed. cashier gave me the kind of look that says “I know you’re about to start a midnight cooking disaster.” she wasn’t wrong.
late night tortilla runs are dangerous. one night I pressed dough at midnight, thinking I’d be “efficient” for the week. by morning half the stack was gone because I ate them plain, one after another, like bread. butter and salt, nothing fancy. it felt like a secret party with myself.
sometimes I do them early instead. six a.m., sun barely up, pan smoking, me flipping dough while trying not to wake the neighbors. I burned one so badly the whole apartment smelled like charcoal. landlord knocked an hour later about “smoke issues.” I lied and said I’d been toasting bread.
I once tried slapping dough between my palms like my grandma did. she never used a press, just hands, perfect circles, always humming. I ended up with amoeba shapes, uneven edges, holes in the middle. slapped one too hard and it flew onto the floor. the dog pounced before I could stop him.
grandma would’ve laughed, I think. maybe told me to slow down. patience. something I don’t have.
weirdest tortilla use? I once tried to use them as emergency pizza crust. smeared tomato sauce, cheese, shoved it in the oven. result: soggy frisbee. another time, I used one as a spoon to scoop beans. messy, but worked.
I even threw one like an actual frisbee at my roommate once when we were drunk. hit the lamp. tortilla tore, lamp survived.
I’ve burned them, undercooked them, dropped them. pressed them so thin they tore, so thick they tasted like raw dough. I once forgot to add salt. do you know what an unsalted tortilla tastes like? nothing. air. sadness in bread form.
and yet — when they work, even one out of ten — soft, steaming, pliable — I forget every disaster. rip a piece, eat it plain. maybe a sprinkle of salt, maybe butter melting into the folds. that’s it. nothing on earth tastes like that.
I tell myself I won’t do it again, too much mess, too much stress. but the bag of masa always sits there, whispering.
I meant to finish this with some clever line about patience or tradition. but honestly, I’m still sitting here with flour on my jeans, a half-burned tortilla in my hand, chewing while the smoke alarm battery chirps in the background.
and I’ll probably try again tomorrow.