I stopped thinking of my birthplace as a country and allowed it to
become my identity. I’m not from Honduras, I’m Honduras. It is easy, and
tempting, to disassociate. I need not to sit thousands of miles away, far
from the night’s gunshots and hungry babies’ screams, to do so. I could
stand right in the center of Tegucigalpa and believe myself to be far, very
far, from the morning smell of coffee dancing in the air with that of death.
Death. The smell of death inHonduras is not that of a rotting corpse. The
smell of death in my city is that of routine, of triviality. Thus, it is a smell
that stirs no one, that hurts no one, that moves no one. A much more
powerful smell is that of the nacatamales, and I don’t say just because
of all the starving facespressing against car windows at every stoplight.
Nacatamales are more Honduran than the five stars in my flag. It is a
smell every Honduran knows, every Honduran craves. The rich buy them
by the dozen in the corners of busy streets. The poor prepare them by
the hundreds every night and dawn, before daybreak comes, requiring
their swollen feet and hands back at their corners. It was in the process
of preparing them for the first time this previous Christmas that I realized
just how much nacatamales relate to my Honduran identity. Each step,
each ingredient, is also a facet of my everyday life as a Honduran woman,
especially upon moving to America tostudy. It is time we share the recipe
for nacatamales; it is time we share what life as Honduran is.
1. Place 4 tomatoes, 3 green chilies, and 1 white onion (2 if small) in a
blender. Liquefy until completely liquid.
“You gotta hook me up with some Ecuadorean girl or guy,” Tiff says in
between bites, “they’re fineashell,” the last three words mushing up into
one, as she tries to swallow and talk at the same time. “I don’t think I even
know any Ecuadorean people,” I say, confused as to where this is coming
from. She frowns, “wait, aren’t you from Ecuador?” “I’m from Honduras,” I
say, not annoyed nor upset. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what I meant. It’s the same
thing, the Hispanic people.” I laugh; it wasn’t malicious, and at least she
didn’t say we’re all Mexicans. Ecuadorean, Honduran, Mexican–– we’re as
different and similar as tomatoes, chilies, and onions. But we’re blended
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