Issue 33: El Maíz

In my process of Walking Backwards I want to be in deep relationship with maíz. 

Last week, I got to visit Tidelands. I was thrilled to hear the familiar voices of the All My Relations Podcast as they sat with the Sioux Chef. 

As I opened my new cookbook, I was so emotional seeing corn on the page. 

Corn is my ancestor. 

My ancestors too walked Turtle Island. 

My mother shares stories about how my great grandmother would make tortillas over an open fire. She would tie a rope to her wrist to put her baby to sleep. His hamaca would swing with the movements of her wrists. 

She also tells me about how my grandmother’s hands were curved at the fingertips from using un molenillo to process pinol, a powdered toasted corn drink traditional to Nicaragua. 

I have some pujagua corn seeds on my altar. 

I tried planting these seeds one year. Even with the short season I managed to grow a second generation of semillas. 

Maybe someday I will try again to navigate the Seattle growing season because I want to make my own flour for offerings of corn meal. Maybe one day I will learn how to make tortillas.  

The last time I tried, it did not go well. 

Lol or maybe crying out loud. 

The Sioux Chef talked about how “some of the knowledge is lost, some we are just recovering.” 

I am just recovering some of the knowledge. I grew up a latch-key first generation kid. I “cooked” and “fed” myself and my sister while my mom was working. 

Simplify it to say that we did not learn how to make tortillas. We definitely did not learn how to make yoltamales. We definitely definitely did not learn how to make nacatamales.

“We can evolve. What do we want to pass on? We have the power to evolve every day and do so with the intention of what we want the next generation to have.”

So I bought some elotes. Then I bought more ingredients and all of a sudden I was in it. Like really in it. 

For what felt like the first time, really my second or third time, I shucked and shelled the corn, gently, since we have to use the husk for the tamales. I'll post the video on instagram. 

“nature gave us everything” and our ancestors were brilliant; they gave us “the blueprint and the knowledge of what to do with the plants and the animals.”   

My daughter, goddess of the baby corn, helped me blend the maíz. I wish we had our grandmother's mortero y maja.  

I poured out the corn milk and she drank our atole while I proceeded to make yoltamales. 

I thought to myself, this was never meant to be done alone, but in a circle of mujeres, chismeando y riendo. I was lonely for a second. But then I remembered my grandmothers and their hands guided me as I worked the masa on my own. 

The corn is not as sweet this time of the year, it is not in season.

Yet the corn was still life affirming. 

“We do not know how many seeds were lost but we do know how many are left and we have to protect them.” 

We will protect them because they are our gift to future generations who will make tortillas for their babies and tamales for their grandbabies. 

A lot of love in that masa de maíz.

From seed to harvest,

Diana

P.S. You have 15 days to join our Walking Backwards circle.

Why not spend some time with our corn ancestors?