Hot Tamales

This is how I got forty tamales in my freezer. Actually, there are only thirty seven. Confused? Of course.

Early on, I recognized I had a mission in life. Everyone is put on earth for a reason. Mine is to find the best-grandma-tasting tamales in the world. Yep, they’re out there, and in unusual places. I have found them Cleveland, Ohio and Rogersville, Tennessee. I suppose if I lived in the southwest, or hung out in LA, I’d have retired by now with an unlimited supply of pork stuffed masa wrapped in a corn husk. But my roots are from upstate New York, and from the day when being of Mexican didn’t bring to mind “illegal alien.”

When I came to Kona to purchase my condo I slipped into a little establishment called Habaneros for a bit to eat. Fortunately, it was a Wednesday, the only day of the week that they serve tamales. I ordered a couple and headed back to the resort where I had a rented a very nice condo on a golf course near with ocean.

It had rained most of the week and second thoughts about relocating to Hawaii haunted me. I needed to enjoy something, so the anticipation of munching down on the tamales made my mouth water. I sat on the lanai to watch golfers trudge the back nine as they tried to sneak in a round on an iffy afternoon. I felt for them. At least I wasn’t on vacation. One bite and my weather woes disappeared. I only regretted that I wouldn’t be on the island come the following Wednesday.

I won’t say I moved to Kona because I found the perfect tamale, but it is a good reason.

Being without motorized transportation requires a good deal of planning and it seems I’ve spent too much time on transportation. My first week on the island has been busier than I expected. And I pounded the pavement on foot and on bike. I try to plan the day, and minimize the number of hills I must ascend because I hate climbing hills, I’m lazy and I always arrive drenched with sweat.

Most everything I need is within a short distance and doesn’t require a hill: the library, the farmer’s market, the church, community pool, hardware store and now with Target on the island, I can even get some groceries without trucking up to KTA, Saveway or Wal-Mart. But when I have to climb, like to go to the bike shop, the hills albeit short are killer steep. Okay, maybe not for a sixteen year old, but for a 55 year old woman on a mountain bike, they require a bit of muscle. I got it. I can do it, but my knees are beginning to feel the pain.

Tamales are down the road about five miles and then up a hill, a killer hill. I ordered twenty to freeze for dinners. (Planning dinners reduces the need to ride up hills. So does not eating dinner. I've done that too.) On Wednesday morning I went to pick up mu order. Hermando, the owner was surprised I showed up on my bike. The tamales had to be repacked to fit in my back pack.

Do you know how much twenty tamales weight? As much as a fat cat. Do you know how much warmth is emitted from twenty fresh tamales sitting on your back? As much as a fat cat.

I considered the mission a success until I got home and decided to eat one. Sure it was before ten am, but it wasn’t a beer. Disappointment registered when I tasted one very salty tamale. The tamales either fell into the ocean on the way home or absorbed a lot of my sweat. Neither happened. Someone goofed in the kitchen.

Frankly, I chalked it up and individually wrapped each tamale in foil and tossed them pile of them into the freezer. I figured with a bit of rice and beans, topped with salsa, the masa would be okay.

That evening, I got a call from Hermando. “I’m sorry. We not taste them and we discovered the tamales are too salty. We already made you more. Come by, tomorrow, yes, if you like and pick up.”

Oh my knees. But worth the trip.