With utter fascination, I force my dear, sweet friend to recount the details of her family’s ravioli-making tradition over and over. She’s a good sport and endures my amazed questions and relentless demands for more details.

Annually, the family meets at one member’s house, who has purchased all of the ingredients, for a full day of culinary magic. For hours, they cook and assemble hundreds of meat filled ravioli. When finished, they leave and not one single person is allowed to take a portion with them. All of the finished product remains with the host of the sweatshop. Any attempts and/or requests to take even just a square home is met with ridicule, whispering, and a shaming I am convinced lasts for generations. I’m reminded of diamond miners who have their hand cut off if caught stealing! The only way any of the assemblers get a portion is if they attend the upcoming family holiday event. Attendance is mandatory to eat and no plates leave with attendees!

I find this absolutely hilarious because it is the exact opposite of my family’s (actually, my whole culture’s) holiday tradition.

We too meet up at a host’s house to form an assembly line of tamale-making but the cost of the ingredients is shared equally and the work is evenly divided. No one is exempt from the work. Even the kids are put to work with simpler duties until they are promoted in a year or two. The youngest ones always manage to sneak away once they realize being in the thick of it isn’t near as much fun as they imagined. There is no such luck for the teens who sullenly follow all orders. They see their future in each corn kernel. The adults don’t even question their lot in life anymore. It involves a day long, back-breaking task of corn shucking, ‘de-kernelling’, grinding, chopping, peeling, de-veining, mixing, scooping, folding, and stacking of hundreds of green corn tamales. It’s considered very bad luck to count them during the assembly stage, by the way, and kids often get their hand slapped away for trying.

With a cross made from two strips of hojas and placed atop to protect them, one small batch is put to steam immediately. This is necessary for the required taste test that has no bearing whatsoever because, in the hour it takes to cook, we are too far in the process to turn around or make any corrections. This is just for show. There is no way the recipe, handed down for generations, was miscalculated.

An afternoon of chats, fights, and gossip ends with a delicious snack and much self congratulatory back-slapping. The bounty is divided with exact precision and everyone leaves with their well-earned portion.

Tamale production is serious business. The walls in every kitchen have eavesdropped on conversations doling out the criticism, critique, and judgement of another’s tamale recipe. This is done in private and only with a trusted comadre. The hapless target will go to their grave never knowing their tamales had been deemed dry, flavorless, or skimpy.

We firmly believe in sharing. In fact, every guest will have a tamale foisted upon them. Each person is irrefutably convinced their own tamale recipe is the best and is hellbent on proving it. A friendly visit during the holidays inevitably includes a serving of the house-made tamale whether you’re hungry or not. Every bite, from plate to mouth, is watched like a hawk by the chef. Of course, every sample is proclaimed the absolute best ever! This is also part of the tradition and no one dares deviate.

Some traditions are as enduring as time, some can change infinitesimally in the way a drop of water carved out the Grand Canyon. I remain hopeful about someday tasting just one ravioli!