Oh brother, I am late with this Mother’s Day post. Well, I am a mother, and glad for it, and spent the day with my mother, and with being a mother. Am, with, being, that’s what it’s all about – all the in-betweens, all the getting theres, all the becomings. Deeper, rather than wider. Lay those tracks, spread those roots, build that foundation. And see what sprawls, spreads, reaches, blooms, thrives. To be a good mom, you need short toes (so they do not get stepped on figuratively), a deep lap and a strong tap root.
No chickens or eggs about it, you have to be a mother before you can be a mother-in-law.
And before you can be a Mother-in-Law Sandwich, you have to be the mother of all corn dishes, a tamale. What goes in a Mother-in-Law sandwich is a tamale generously laced with hot sauce. So generous that the tamale could (almost) be mistaken for a Chicago red hot.
The sublime Miss M gave me the lowdown on this southside sanny: It gets steamed and then it gets bunned. It won’t *POP* when you bite it. It’ll bite when you pop it – in your mouth.
Hot Tamales. Oh Mama! Hot Tamales in a bun. Makes the imagination reel with wonder. This sandwich sets my world in a new orbit, a new orbit flung wide powerfully by…. BREAD. A tamale is just a tamale until you surround it with yeast-raised, wheat-structured, since-the-dawn-of-time, BREAD. Yes, a simple hot dog roll. Yes, just that, a plain, subtle (to put it nicely) hot. dog. roll.
Then they tart it up royally. All mama’s should be accessorized so, to the point of groaning.
The Lunch Encounter 