Tamales are a staple for most Mexican families, especially at Christmas. The perfect tamales should only be cooked no more than 1  1/2 hours, and the masa (corn dough) should easily separate from the hoja (corn husk). My mother made the best tamales in the world, and I wanted to try her recipe for our “Annual Tamale Contest.”  I called my sister Norma several times to be certain of our mother’s recipe for tamales. In the past Mike was always the one getting everything prepped for the tamales, but this time things were going to change. In the last 2 years our tamales have not won. All I could think about was winning the contest with my Mom’s secret recipe.

Mike and I did a lot of running around on Saturday to get all the ingredients together. We went to a different Mexican market for the masa this time. Masa is the freshly cooked corn, ground up, and mixed with lard.  We purchased 25 pounds of masa, but Mike mentioned that the masa looked too mushy. My sister Norma assured me that Mother always used pork shoulder for the meat. Mike made the sauce with California chiles, pasillas, and New Mexico chile, just like my Mom. Mike kept reminding me, “This is your show; I’m just helping.” As Mike cut the meat I browned it in a large frying pan, and then transferred it into the sauce. For two hours we allowed the flavors to unite into one, and soon our home was filled with the sweet aroma of Mexican comfort food. Before Mike went to bed he told me, “Make sure you let the meat cool down before putting into the fridge.” It was already 10:00 P.M. and my eyes were getting heavy when I went to check on the meat, It was still too hot. I wondered if this putting hot food away was an Old Wive’s Tale. I Googled it, and sure enough, every single post said that it was fine to put hot food in the refrigerator.

The following morning was production day. I recruited my neighbor Adele, one of my longtime friends to help us.

I taught my class of catechumens at St. Norbert, and from there went to the Dollar Tree to pick up a plastic table cloth. As usual, I left the store with a lot other junk, including Christmas headbands for the kids.

I Came home, soaked the corn husk and waited for the laborers to arrive. Sonja, Russ and the kids, including their dog, arrived at 2:30. My job was to mix the masa with sauce to give it some color, but I decided to go off on my own tangent and add some broth from the pork shoulder. No one knew I was doing this, until nosy Russ asked, “What are you putting into the masa?” “None of your business” I answered. Russ would not leave it alone, “It looks like fat!” “It’s my Mom’s recipe!” I sharply replied. It was not my Mom’s recipe, but my creative way of making things taste better.

I cooked the first dozen tamales for us to enjoy while we worked. The tamales had been cooking for over 2 hours when I got one out and served Adele. The weirdest thing happened. When I opened the tamales it was like mush, Mikos opened the second one and said, “Mom, these are raw!” “No they’re not, they’ve been cooking for almost two hours, ” I replied. Poor Adele, she graciously ate the mushy tamales and said that they was great. Mike was all over this and said , “I knew we should have never changed where we bought the masa, it was way too moist!” So we continued to cook the tamales for another half  hour. This time Sonja got into the act, saying, “Wow, what happened Mom? They’re sticking to the hoja (corn husk)!” I had no reply, but I started to panic, because at this point we were almost done with the production. Mike said, “Cook them longer!” Someone cranked up the heat on the pot and while everyone was pointing fingers at me, the tamales started burning. The smell hit all of us at the same time because we were all in the kitchen. “Oh my God, now you’re burning them!” Sonja yelled.

These are the loving words that came out of my family’s mouths:

Mikos: “Mom, did you make tamale soup?”

Sonja: “They taste so good, but they look so awful!”

Mike: “The masa was too moist because we did not buy it at the right place.”

Russ remained silent but we both knew what I did. So to clear my conscience, I sat down and said “Well, maybe because I added some broth from the pork shoulder to the masa, this could have changed things.”  At this point everybody started going crazy. Even Jenny, who did not help with the production, said, ” So you compromised the masa?” and her loving husband, my only son, Mikos, added, “You’re never going to win with these tamales Mom.”  Russ finally opened his mouth and ratted me out saying, “It was not broth, it was fat.”

After everyone left, I called my sister Norma and shared with her my observation that the recipe that she gave me was a disaster. At first she was very empathetic, then came all the questions: “Did you put the meat away while it was hot? What did you do? You guys worked so hard.” Then I told her about adding the broth. “You did what? You added more lard? That is not our mother’s recipe!” She ended the conversation with, ” It’s a shame, It’s a crying shame!” I told her to shut up (in a nice way).

So on December 15, 2018 I will enter both of my pork and chicken tamales, and pray that God will fix this debacle in time for me to be crowned the “New Tamale Queen.”

Please remember that we are entering into the New Liturgical Year, and Sunday was the first day of Advent. The first Sunday of  Advent symbolizes Hope with the “Prophet’s Candle,” reminding us that our Lord Jesus is coming. We prepare our hearts for his birth.

God Bless You!

In the spring of 2016, our son invited us to join his family for Easter break. Though well-traveled, a trip to Cabo San Lucas was new territory — something worth looking forward to. My ancestors are from Mexico, yet personally, there are no deep roots there — no tías or tíos, no cousins to visit. Whatever cultural connection exists came not from the land itself, but from the traditions our mother passed down, a woman born and raised in the United States. Everything heard about Cabo San Lucas pointed to one thing: a playground for singles, a party town. What no one had mentioned — and what would soon become very clear — were the dangers lurking in its waters.

The Arrival

The airport was bustling from the moment we arrived — signs everywhere welcoming tourists, and scores of locals competing energetically for attention, each eager to sign up the next group for a popular excursion. The atmosphere was a bit overwhelming.

Getting to the car rental office brought its own set of frustrations. The staff attempted to charge far more than the agreed-upon price — a shady but apparently common tactic. Our son Mikos stepped in and handled it with confidence, though the language barrier occasionally required some translation assistance to keep things from escalating. Enterprise Car Rental in Mexico operates quite differently than its American counterpart, and since no one was looking to start an international incident, a reluctant compromise was reached and we moved on.

The Chain Letter

Our granddaughter Maddie was worried sick — she had broken a chain letter and feared the worst. A gentle reminder set things straight: as Christians, superstition has no hold over us. God is in charge, not chain letters.

Or so it seemed.

Upon arriving at the hotel, the luggage locks refused to cooperate. Every combination tried — birthdate rearranged in every possible sequence — yielded nothing. Meanwhile, the rest of the family was already downstairs, buzzing with excitement to get to the pool. Without access to the suitcase, the bathing suit was as out of reach as the water itself.

Finally, Mikos called up to the room. “What’s taking you so long?”

The reply came quickly: “Maybe Maddie should have sent that chain letter after all — I can’t get this lock open.”

After nearly an hour and the patient assistance of a hotel porter, the suitcase surrendered. Everyone was finally reunited at the pool. A stroll along the beach followed, and Mikos and Wil eventually waded into the water. The waves looked a little rough, which was enough reason to stay on shore and watch. That instinct proved wise — the current swept Wil under without warning, dragging him down before releasing him. After that, Wil wanted nothing more to do with the Sea of Cortez.

Resort Piña Colada

Resort life has never been particularly appealing — the sun has taken its toll over the years, and the whole bathing suit affair is, frankly, overrated. A good piña colada, however, is another matter entirely.

Just as a comfortable position had been found in the lounge chair, drink in hand, an uninvited guest appeared — a large lizard creeping deliberately toward the chair. Petrified is not too strong a word. As it turned out, these reptiles are simply fellow sun-seekers, scattered everywhere across the resort grounds, completely unbothered by the human crowd and posing no threat whatsoever. Still, no one warned us about the lizards.

Time To Pray

The following day, the rental car was put to good use with a drive toward San José del Cabo. The village itself was worth every mile — beautiful, unhurried, and full of quiet charm. That morning, however, there was friction between Mike and me. The exact cause has since faded from memory, as petty grievances tend to do, but the tension was real enough.

Then came the steps of Parroquia San José.

Walking into that humble, beautiful church, a simple prayer was offered — asking to be freed from the spirit of anger that had taken root that morning. Something lifted. The church, unpretentious and welcoming, provided exactly what was needed: stillness, grace, and the presence of the Lord. There is something profound about that reality — that in any corner of the world, one can walk through a door and find the Tabernacle of Jesus Christ waiting. No appointment necessary. No explanation required. Just mercy, freely given.

The Bathing Suit-Cover Up

The next day, the pool held no appeal. Glancing out the hotel window, the lounge chairs lining the beach looked far more inviting. Mike agreed, towels were gathered, and down to the beach we went.

A recent purchase had quickly become a travel essential — a bathing suit cover-up with flattering slip-on pants that had done wonders for confidence. No discomfort, no self-consciousness. Just ease. A spot was chosen, towels laid out, and for a while, there was nothing to do but rest.

The Red Flag

Eyes opened from a light rest to an unexpected sight directly overhead — a red flag snapping in the wind. In English and Spanish, the message was unambiguous: No swimming allowed.

The sun, however, was relentless. After a while, the heat made a brief wade in the water seem entirely reasonable — just enough to cool off, nothing more. Walking down toward the shoreline, Mike gradually disappeared from view, and the only thing clearly visible was that red flag, whipping urgently in the wind as if trying to say something worth hearing. A few local vendors nearby were quietly displaying silver jewelry, but otherwise, it was still — just the sea, the flag, and one very warm traveler walking toward the water.

The water felt so good on my feet that going in deeper seemed harmless enough. It took only seconds for the sea to decide otherwise.

Round One

Without warning, a violent undercurrent seized control. There was no fighting it — my body was dragged deep, tumbling without direction or footing. At some point, my head struck the ocean floor. Shock gave way to panic. Coming up for air was impossible; the current tossed and held me with what felt like heavy, deliberate hands pressing down from above.

Then, in the chaos, came stillness — not of the water, but of the soul. A prayer rose up from somewhere deeper than the fear. God, help me.

And just like Jonah, the ocean spit me out.

Staggering back toward shore, dazed and beaten, there was barely time to find my footing before another sight registered — my beloved cover-up, that dear and faithful travel companion, being pulled back toward the waves. What happened next defies all reasonable explanation.

Back in I went.

“Oh hell no — you’re not getting my cover-up!”

Round Two

The ocean, apparently, was not impressed. It took me again. This time was worse. With one hand clutching the cover-up and my body completely surrendered to the current, there was nothing left to do but pray a second time — and mean it even more than the first. Once again, mercy prevailed. The sea released its grip, and this time I reached the shore for good.

Still dazed, still half-running from the water’s edge, a voice cut through the noise. A nearby vendor — a man selling silver crosses — approached and said calmly, in Spanish:

“Señora, necesitas una cruz más grande.”

“Lady, you need a bigger cross.”

I finally made my way back to Mike, who took one look at me and said, “What the hell happened to you?”

“I almost died while you were out here sunbathing!”

I was a complete mess. Sand was everywhere — lumped inside my bathing suit, ground into my hair, packed deep into both ears. An outdoor shower nearby offered some hope, but it was useless. No amount of rinsing was making a dent. I was essentially a walking bag of sand, and with every step back toward the hotel, I could feel the gritty weight of the ocean still clinging to me, unwilling to let go. My body had collected enough sand to make a sand castle.

But the sea had let go. Twice.

San Lucas had been watching over me that day — of that there was no doubt. And to my guardian angel, a sincere apology was long overdue for putting her through all of that. But also — and this felt equally important — a word of thanks. Because somehow, against all odds, she helped me get the cover-up back too.