Rosa’s Flour Tortillas -- The Recipe That Is Really About Letting Go

The first week after Alejandro. The second parent lost in eighteen months. The kitchen is quieter now — not because Alejandro was loud (he was never loud; he was the quietest man in any room) but because the idea of him is quieter. The idea of a father waiting across the bridge. The idea of a voice on the phone saying everything is fine. The idea that there is still someone in Anapra who remembers the house the way it was, who remembers Rosa young, who remembers Javier alive. That idea is gone. The house in Anapra will be sold or left or given to Eduardo. The kitchen will be cleaned out. The spice shelf I arranged last month will be rearranged by someone who didn't know that cumin goes on the left. And the order of Rosa's kitchen will be lost, and the loss of the order is a loss on top of a loss on top of a loss, and the stack is getting tall.

I went back to the bakery on Thursday. Three days off — the longest since Rosa died. The ovens were warm. The conchas were waiting. Graciela and Sofia had held it together. Yolanda came in extra days. The bakery doesn't need me as much as it used to. The bakery has other hands now, other women, other strength. And instead of feeling expendable — the way I felt after the beach trip — I feel grateful. I feel grateful that the bakery can survive without me, because surviving without me means it will survive after me, and after me is the whole point. After me is Sofia. After me is the future. And the future doesn't need me to be at the counter at 4 AM forever. The future needs me to teach and then let go. Rosa taught me and let go. I am teaching Sofia and will let go. The letting go is the recipe. Not the flour, not the water, not the salt. The letting go.

Luis Jr. hugged me. In the kitchen. On Friday morning. He walked in, he saw me standing at the counter, he walked over, and he hugged me. No words. Just arms. Seventeen-year-old arms that are stronger than mine now, that will carry a rifle and a rucksack and the weight of whatever the Army gives him, and those arms held me for thirty seconds and the thirty seconds were more than any eulogy, more than any prayer, more than any word anyone has said to me since Alejandro died. Thirty seconds. One hug. From the boy who will be a soldier.

I made tortillas. Just tortillas. Nothing else. Flour tortillas, Rosa's recipe, the one I know by heart, by hand, by blood. I made them and I ate them with butter and salt, standing at the counter, the way Rosa ate, the way I eat, the way women in my family have always eaten — standing, not sitting, because standing is strength and strength is what we show the world even when the world has taken everyone we love. I ate three tortillas. I drank coffee. I went to Mass. I lit three candles: Rosa, Alejandro, Javier. Three candles. Three graves. Three Delgados in the ground and one Gutierrez standing in a cathedral with flour on her hands, praying for the dead and baking for the living and doing both at the same time because that is what Rosa taught me and Rosa was never wrong.

So this is the recipe. Rosa’s flour tortillas—the ones I made that morning after Alejandro, the ones I ate with butter and salt standing at the counter the way she always did. There is nothing complicated here. Flour, lard, salt, warm water. Your hands. That’s it. Rosa never wrote it down, and I am writing it down now because the letting go means trusting that someone else can make them after me, even if their hands are different, even if their counter is different, even if their grief is different. Here it is.

Rosa’s Flour Tortillas

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 45 minutes | Servings: 12 tortillas

Ingredients

• 3 cups all-purpose flour
• 1/3 cup lard (or vegetable shortening)
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup warm water

Instructions

1. Mix the dough. In a large bowl, combine the flour and salt. Add the lard and work it into the flour with your fingers until the mixture looks like coarse sand. No chunks—Rosa always said if you can see the lard, you’re not done.
2. Add the water. Pour in the warm water a little at a time, stirring with your hand until a shaggy dough forms. You may not need all the water, or you may need a splash more. The dough should be soft but not sticky.
3. Knead. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for 2 to 3 minutes until smooth and elastic. Do not overwork it—just enough that it feels alive under your hands.
4. Rest. Divide the dough into 12 equal balls. Place them on a tray, cover with a clean towel, and let them rest for 20 minutes. This is not optional. The rest is what makes them soft.
5. Roll. On a lightly floured surface, roll each ball into a thin round, about 7 to 8 inches across. Turn the dough a quarter turn between each pass of the rolling pin to keep the shape even.
6. Cook. Heat a dry comal or cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Place a tortilla on the hot surface and cook for 30 to 45 seconds until bubbles form and the underside has light brown spots. Flip and cook another 20 to 30 seconds.
7. Keep warm. Stack finished tortillas inside a clean kitchen towel to keep them soft and warm while you cook the rest.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 155 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 22g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 195mg