*this post is dedicated to the memory of Carmen Chavez, who not only made the best tamales in the world, she also shared all her methods with my mom, who imparted them to me.
As much as fried foods are drenched in Hanukkah tradition (see my previous post), no food speaks out the "reason for the Xmas season" as boldly as the tamale. Maybe it's just me. Being neither Jewish nor Christian, maybe I find myself looking for a meaningful anchor in the holiday season other than a baby in a pig trough unknowingly destined to becoming the most insidious icon of zombie worship in human history. Whatever. I just like good tamales, and truly good tamales are practically impossible to come by unless you make them yourself.
A tamale (and I shall use "tamale" for the singular rather than the more proper "tamal," just because) consists of an inedible skin of some kind—I will use corn husk, or hoja, but I've seen banana leaves used to great effect as well as parchment—wrapped around a cylinder of corn-based dough, the masa, which is filled with something truly tasty. There are no constraints on what one can use as tamale filling. Karen's froggy readers may be tempted to incorporate lardons and duck confit, while those in Kiwiland will want to try a lamb concoction or perhaps chopped-up pavlova for a dessert tamale. While I have no problems with innovation, the pork-and-red-chile mixture is both classic and (to me) the best. For anyone crazy enough to jump into the culture of tamale-making from having read just this post, I strongly recommend starting by mastering the red chile tamales. Later on you can do your cherry and foie gras tamale wrapped in fig leaf (which I think could be delicious!).
There are three parts to the process of tamale-making: preparation of the masa, preparation of the filling, and assembly/cooking. Not one of them is particularly easy, although short cuts are available.
"Masa regular" is dough made from corn, water and lye and is available at most Mexican supermarkets (especially during the holiday season) as well as at your local tortilleria. This is what you use to make your own corn tortillas at home—take a ball of the stuff right from the package (it's the consistency of Play-Doh), smash it flat in your tortilla press and cook on a hot comal (I use a cast iron skillet). But for tamales, the cooked masa needs to be soft and fluffy rather than sturdy and chewy (which are desirable qualities in corn tortillas), and so we need a transubstantiation even more profound than the Roman Catholic conversion of communion crackers into the body of the boy in the pig trough. No mysticism is required here, though. This transformation takes place with the addition of prodigious quantities of lard (which is said to work in mysterious ways. Mm hmm.)
Ten pounds of masa to three pounds of lard comes out about right. I'll add a handful of sea salt as well, and then start to mix. This part is a lot of work unless you have some kind of giant machine doing it for you (I don't). You have to mix it really well, and even then the masa isn't quite finished yet—a bit of juice from the roast pork will be added to soften the masa just before the assembly step.
I mentioned that there are short cuts, and the one that might make some sense is to purchase the masa pre-mixed with lard and water, ready-to-use for tamale-making. Personally, I don't go for this, as I want better control over the mixture. I find that the pre-mixed masa cooks up too dry (not enough lard), too salty, and flavorless because they use plain water instead of jus from a roast to soften the dough. Taste just the masa from any large-scale tamale production (even the "home-made" tamale sellers) and you'll know what I mean.
The filling requires a lot of roasted pork and a chile base. I start by cutting a large pork shoulder into slabs and sprinkling the meat liberally with kosher salt and dry rub consisting of cayenne, garlic powder and onion powder. Into a roasting pan and into the oven at 350°F for a couple of hours, turning every so often. When it's kinda brown and has had a chance to braise a bit in its own juices, pull the meat out of the oven and put the meat pieces onto a plate to cool and strain the pan juices—you'll need this to finish the masa.
For red-chile tamale filling the only kind of chile is the kind from New Mexico. Other varieties—California included—are more prone to discoloration and can result in a tamale filling that is more brown than red, which is a visual disappointment. I start by popping the stem end off of the chile, checking for mold, and shaking out most of the seeds—no need to be anal about this. Then a quick toast on each side in a smoking hot iron skillet, and then into a pot with a head's worth of garlic cloves. Just enough water to cover, then simmer for about half an hour, pushing the chiles under continually—the point here is to rehydrate them.
Now fish the chiles out with tongs, letting the water drain back into the pan. Throw out the water, which should have a good bit of dirt that came off the chiles. Blend the chiles with some clean water, the garlic (fished out from the chile water) until fairly smooth. Run this through a food mill to get rid of all those nasty bits of skin as well as any remaining seeds. What you should have now is a chile puree that is thick and beautifully bright red. Put this into a large sauté pan or wok with a slug of lard, and "fry" the sauce for a bit. Add ground cumin and ground oregano (not a lot of either, but about twice as much cumin as oregano) and salt to taste. The flavor should be brilliant.
Back to the pigmeat. I'm assuming it's cooked and cooled by this point. Separate the muscle from the fat, and throw the fat out. Cut the meat into cubes and with your bare hands crush the cubes to separate out the muscle fibers and break the pieces into smaller bits—remember that you can't use gigantic hunks of meat in tamales—and drop the meat into the red chile. Mix it all well and taste it. Add seasonings to make it perfect.
If you're like me, you are dead tired after all this, and so you put off the last (and most time-consuming) step for the day after. Before retiring, however, you should do a final mix on a bit of masa—just enough to make one tamale (complete with filling and hoja) and cook it. There's going to be a lot of time invested into these tamales, and if further adjustment is necessary, now is the time to find out (as opposed to after having made a few dozen). This is also a good time to take the hojas out of their packaging for an overnight soak in hot tap water.
The hojas need to be cleaned of debris, such as dried corn silk, under running water. Toss out any leaves that are mildewy, ripped, holy (I meant as in "with holes," but you can throw out any Holy leaves you find as well) or otherwise defective. Frugal people will try to make use of all the leaves, but hell these things are cheap. Buy an extra bag and throw out the cheesy ones. Put the clean hojas vertically to drain—just make sure to use them before they dry out.
Put some of the masa you worked so hard to mix into a bowl. Add a bit of the meat juice—it helps if you warm this up some—and mix. The idea here is to soften the masa into a more workable consistency so that it's easier to spread onto the hoja. Should be about like a heavy hummus. Or if you do work around the house, like a nice spreadable plaster.
The actual making of the tamale is the part where this whole entire project finally has some meaning. It takes some skill—think of this as a warm-up for the sushi rolls I'll eventually be posting here. You have to spread the right amount and right thickness of masa to completely enclose the filling, allowing for the small amount of oozing that will occur in both directions once you start to shape the roll into a cylinder. After the rolling is complete, put the "seam" up and tuck the tapered side of the hoja under, leaving no airspace between the fold and the masa.
The first ones may come out with too much masa or uneven filling—that's okay. Just steam them up right away and take them to your neighbors, who will be flabbergasted by your industry and generosity. With any luck this may buy you an extra two weeks before they start complaining again about the dogs barking.
Oh—and another thing about the tamale assembly, and this is very important. Don't invite or even allow anyone to help you. It's way more work to oversee someone else's tamale-making than it is to make several dozen on your own. After a brief learning curve, your tamales will become perfectly cylindrical, consistent in size, and beautiful reflections of the person who has had a hand in every step of their creation, unlike what you would get from some last-minute interloper who is joining the party just when it becomes fun. So yeah, humbug, I guess. Ignore this advice at your own peril.
For as long as the masa is raw, the tamales should be kept in a more or less vertical pose. They should also be steamed with the open side up—about 50 minutes—but you can place them horizontally after they are cooked and the masa is set. Tamales are at their best moments after they come from the pot. If you make very large tamales (mine are definitely on the thin side with relatively more filling and less masa than what is typical), additional cooking time may be necessary. Uncooked masa is just gross-tasting. If you're not sure about cooking time, throw in an extra tamale or two to pull out as a tester—be aware that right out of the steamer, fully cooked masa will be softer than what you might expect, but it will still taste cooked.
Uncooked tamales freeze very nicely. Share generously with people you care about, and put away a bunch for later. Steaming hot tamales will be delightful for those days when the weather outside is frightful.
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