The mountains were covered in a beautiful fog. That morning I imagined God inhaled, a long, deep breath - bowed his head and then slowly exhaled. What descended on the mountains was a beautiful opaque vapor and rain drops began to trickle down. Each small drop, steady and light - hit my forehead, my cheeks and grazed my mouth. The wind tousled my hair. A breeze, finally. I walked down the anandor touristico imagining I was in a shampoo commercial. A star.

In Junior High School I was called Pantene hair. It was a compliment of the highest order from the cool black girls. This name was an upgrade from the namecalling that came from the average, devolved, white kid who got terrible grades and was constantly in detention. Tina Corrado the size of an Eldorado or, the most base of them all, fatty bumballatty. No, you haven’t missed anything, bumballatty is not a word. I also have to wonder where Richard and Larry are today. At best, I imagine they are ghostwriting rap songs - but realistically they are pot bellied middle aged men who work in cubicles. They spend their weekends sipping Zima, hanging out at playgrounds and heckling small children.

I got lost in thinking about all of the titles I would not call my memoir. One google search on the go and I realized there was no room for me in the genre of weight loss memoirs. […] Despite having been heavy, I grew to love food. To adore it. We’ve gone from tormented lovers to occasionally seductive, but mostly boring. But still, admittedly, tormented at times. Like any good, healthy relationship there are transitions, ups and downs - passion and pain. I suppose that sums up me and food.

My mind drifted as I walked. I took a seat on a concrete bench outside of Iglesia de Carmen Alto. A quick transition happened, where my thoughts went from drifting to racing with the insults of my childhood. I got lost in thinking about all of the titles I would not call my memoir. One google search on the go and I realized there was no room for me in the genre of weight loss memoirs. Kim Rinheart poached titles such as Goodbye Fatty! Hello Skinny! and Fatass No More. I’ve never read either of her books. Some writers would care to read authors of the same genre, or anyone that would serve as competition, but I would like to think whatever I have to say will undoubtedly be funnier. Besides, I call myself a fatass, in jest, but it wouldn’t go on the cover of my book. Insults would be hidden on page 53 of my memoir, where the running list of playground comments might live.

1. whaler
2. thunder thighs
3. beached whale
5. orca
6. Shamu
7. Willy

Insults would be hidden on page 53 of my memoir, where the running list of playground comments might live. 1. whaler 2. thunder thighs 3. beached whale 5. orca 6. Shamu 7. Willy . Maybe I didn’t mind the underwater theme quite so much because I LOVED WHALES. When I was a kid, every opportunity there was to join the “adopt a whale program,” you guessed it, I joined. Beautiful, large, glorious and elegant, I wanted to save them from becoming extinct. If I was a whale, well I was glorious, large and fiercely friendly - and worthy of being saved.

Maybe I didn’t mind the underwater theme quite so much because I LOVED WHALES. When I was a kid, every opportunity there was to join the “adopt a whale program,” you guessed it, I joined. Beautiful, large, glorious and elegant, I wanted to save them from becoming extinct. If I was a whale, well I was glorious, large and fiercely friendly - and worthy of being saved.

Despite having been heavy, I grew to love food. To adore it. We’ve gone from tormented lovers to occasionally seductive, but mostly boring. But still, admittedly, tormented at times. Like any good, healthy relationship there are transitions, ups and downs - passion and pain. I suppose that sums up me and food.

My mind continued to weave words; stringing together sentences that would live on the empty pages embedded in my heart. Now, my heart was its own book with a new story stored inside of her. Goodbye pain and the weight of playground wounds. That shampoo commercial would be my life - confident, joyful, whole and alive for the whole world to see.

If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.

I walked uphill to church and, as we all know, any good pilgrimage means a trek wrought with effort, sweat, tears and prayers. I’m old enough to recognize what went wrong in my life. I know where I played a part, and understood when I was a victim. I have cradled myself with care and intent; so deeply that I could now see clearly. I was done punishing myself. I went to see priestess Dona Cande.

I imagined Dona Cande was God. I closed my eyes and imagined her process for preparing her coveted Sunday tamales; blessing every single one in her giant stainless steel pot as she added one on top of the other. A beautiful fog covered Dona Cande’s face. Vapor ascended from the pot, holy and healing - not only me but everyone in the community who would eat one that day.

The line was long to receive Sunday’s eucharist, but I knew it would be worth the wait.

Dos tamales de mole, por favor. Para llevar.

I watched Dona Cande remove a tamale from the large pot. She placed it on paper, turned and used her tongs to pull out one more. Both tamales were joined together, stacked one on top of the other, the sweat covered banana leaves of two became one. The paper wet with the weight of holiness

Maybe it was no wonder God called me to stay in Mexico two years ago? Maybe he knew time alone and tamales would heal me? Maybe he knew I could be liberated from food and men? Maybe he knew I was worth it all along? Maybe my trek uphill started at birth and I was finally arriving at the top, at liberation? Maybe it was my turn to be saved?

Ochenta pesos
Gracias

Before I left Dona Cande, I was feeling brave, so I stopped at a Fonda (a small inexpensive restaurant that sells comida riquissima, like you’re eating in someone’s home - preferably that of an old lady) for chocolate de agua (hot chocolate made with water). 30 pesos later I had a piping hot styrofoam cup filled with hot chocolate and there were only two things missing.

I stopped for fresh flowers and a small concha (sweet pan with a sugar coated topping, it looks like a shell, hence the name). Here in Mexico pan con chocolate (bread with chocolate) is the precursor to an actual meal, and who was I to not indulge in tradition? Who was I to deny myself the full package in my rebirth?

Outside of the market I stopped for fresh flowers and a small concha (sweet pan with a sugar coated topping, it looks like a shell, hence the name). Here in Mexico pan con chocolate (bread with chocolate) is the precursor to breakfast. Who was I to not indulge in tradition? Who was I to deny myself the full package in my rebirth? I was starring in my own shampoo commercial now, nothing could stop me.

The walk home passed slowly and steadily; the breeze still lingering in the air. I met a new version of myself, one who was moving forward, for good. I saw more than my past, more than a story, more than a child who was hurt, more than a woman who would binge. I simply saw a woman. I felt my belly move in my pants. Red cotton, loose and flowing in the breeze. The air met the sway of my hips - hidden under the wide leg. The hot chocolate would be enjoyable. I walked in anticipation. In passion. On my own with passion, a tamale, concha and hot chocolate. Maybe God knew it wouldn’t take a man to show me passion, but that I could give myself the gift through forgiveness and moving forward with tasty contraband? Not a bad deal.

I walked through the big wooden doorway and into the courtyard of my apartment. My anticipation grew because I knew my moment was coming and it would be in alignment with my needs; not like the times I ate to fill a hole or slept with someone to be validated. Today I would eat to be reborn. I would eat for love. I would eat with God.

I set my bag on my kitchen chair and removed the flowers. Two small glasses were filled with water, the flowers spread amongst both of them. The chocolate was reheated in a small pot, while a small white plate would hold the concha. I separated the tamales, one for me and one for Juany, the woman who maintains the property and apartments. I took my mug of hot chocolate and concha outside to the patio along with Juany’s tamale. I set the chocolate and concha down on the table.

Juany! Tengo tu tamale!
I met her halfway on the stairs as she was cleaning. Only she and I were on the property that day.
Gracias, Tina!

I picked the sugar off of the top, a sweet kiss on my tongue. I held it there and let it dissolve - melting into sugar water that coated my mouth and graced my lips. I broke the concha in half, then again. I took my first piece and gave it a quick dunk in the hot chocolate. The perfect sponge, it sopped up the right amount of liquid - the intelligence of bread and my dunking skills combined.

The ceremony commenced. I picked the sugar off of the top of the concha, a sweet kiss on my tongue. I held it there and let it dissolve - melting into sugar water that coated my mouth and graced my lips. I broke the concha in half, then again. I took my first piece and gave it a quick dunk in the hot chocolate. The perfect sponge, it sopped up the right amount of liquid - the intelligence of bread and my dunking skills combined. I hadn’t lost my touch since childhood. Mom worked in a bakery in Brooklyn, so conchas and I had history in Mexico that predated this trip and others. I repeated the dunking process until the concha was done, being sure to stop and savor between. I sipped the chocolate, swallowing any residual small bits of the concha that had sunk to the bottom of my mug.

Oil slicked and covered in a banana leaf, I planned to reveal the masa layer by layer and devour the tamale as though I was effortlessly reading a new novel that I couldn’t get enough of. Turning page after page until I’d be done.

Next, the tamale de mole. Oil slicked and covered in a banana leaf, I planned to reveal the masa layer by layer and devour the tamale as though I was effortlessly reading a new novel. I opened each calculated fold of the banana leaf. Each fold revealed a close proximity to the mole covered chicken that rested in its heart. The novel climax. Undoubtedly the best 40 pesos I would spend all week.

I dug into the masa, carefully, as though performing the most tender of operations. The fork gently touched the masa and it slid on to my fork effortlessly. Deep brown mole, shredded chicken, magically melded and made to meet my mouth. As I continued to eat, I was not full, not greedy, or excessively eating - but content and comfortable.

I finished the whole thing. The whole novel. All of it. In one sitting. The banana leaf sat empty and I was sated. I felt no shame in my eating. No torment or emotions. No recollection of childhood whale tales or what followed in my life. I was only, well, eating. How new? A concha for breakfast with chocolate and a tamale afterwards. I never thought I’d see the day.

Juany hummed as she cleaned and listened to music. I listened to her. She’s quiet most days, hearing her hum made me feel her softness. I’ve often wondered what her story might be. My prayer was that she too would be filled with a new story; healed by a tamale.

I could hear her in the house. I could hear the unwrapping of the tamale from the plastic bag. I heard the legs of the dining chair move across the floor, the clink of the plate as it kissed the wooden table. The wind continued to dance. My hair moved in the breeze. It had been so hot that I wondered if my perimenopausal hormones would ever experience relief. If my emotions would too. But, at last, here we are. Here I am. A belly full, saved by food and its offerings. God. And in love.

Liberated by a Tamale