Norma Naranjo's Tamales

Norma Naranjo's Tamales
Norma Naranjo's Tamales
Highway 84 runs from Santa Fe to Colorado. About forty minutes north of Santa Fe, the highway cuts a paved path through Ohkay Owingeh, a Native American reservation, and the roadside becomes dense with fast-food outlets, outposts of national grocery chains, Walmart, and billboards for Ohkay Casino. Hutch and Norma Naranjo's sprawling midcentury home is set about fifty years back from the road, a shrine to the tug-of-war between new ways and traditional ones. In the backyard, Mr. Naranjo built two hornos (beehive-shaped adobe ovens). Inside the house, a handmade wreath of dried chiles hangs on one wall and a string of made-for-tourists ceramic peppers on another. A naive painting of St. Francis hangs not far from a cluster of dream catchers that the couple and their two grown children fashion from string, feathers, and yarn, just as their Pueblo ancestors did. "We go to church one Sunday and dance the traditional dances the next," said Mrs. Naranjo. A retired social worker, she gives cooking classes and does a little catering. But she spends most of her mornings working the two-acre minifarm where she grows vegetables from seeds that have been passed from one Pueblo generation to another for at least a thousand years. "The history of our people is in those seeds," she says. In the evenings, when her husband builds hornos on the terraces of hotels and McMansions, Mrs. Naranjo visits the elderly women in Ohkay Owingeh, who remember life and cooking when it was closer to the land, and collects their recipes and food stories. "Our history lives in our hands as well," she says. Mrs. Naranjo moves with the efficiency of a modern professional as she smooths cornmeal paste on damp cornhusks. Tiny white kernels from several ears of heirloom corn, and diced green chiles and squash, along with a thick, blood-red chile sauce and shredded fresh cheese, are lined up in small stainless-steel bowls at the head of her tamale assembly line. She notes that tamales were stuffed with rabbit, venison, pork—whatever people had. Vegetable tamales were a fine way to make use of the gardens' overflowing crops. She swathes the dough, sprinkles filling, folds, ties, and places the tamale bundles on a rack set over water in a big enameled pot. From time to time, she glances out the window to the backyard, where her husband is feeding small, dry sticks into this new four-by-four horno. Her smaller tamales are, she says, her only concession to modernity: "People love the little ones as snacks, and Hutch and I love them in these green chile stews we make in the horno."
  • Preparing Time: -
  • Total Time: -
  • Served Person: Makes about 36 small tamales
Mexican Thanksgiving Hominy/Cornmeal/Masa
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1 teaspoon vegetable oil
  • 3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
  • Carbohydrate 15 g(5%)
  • Cholesterol 11 mg(4%)
  • Fat 5 g(8%)
  • Fiber 2 g(6%)
  • Protein 4 g(7%)
  • Saturated Fat 3 g(13%)
  • Sodium 226 mg(9%)
  • Calories 118

Norma Naranjo's Tamales: A Taste of Tradition and Modernity

The aroma of freshly made tamales hangs heavy in the air, a comforting scent that speaks of family, history, and the enduring spirit of the Pueblo people. My name is Norma Naranjo, and for generations, my family has been crafting these little bundles of deliciousness, a tradition passed down through countless hands and whispered across time. Our family's tamales aren't just a recipe; they are a story, a connection to the ancient wisdom of our ancestors and the vibrant present of our community. Located just outside of Santa Fe, our home sits in the heart of Ohkay Owingeh, where the old ways intertwine with the new, creating a rich tapestry of cultural heritage.

My days are a blend of the old and the new. I tend to my small farm, nurturing heirloom vegetables from seeds that have been handed down for over a thousand years. Each seed holds a piece of our history, a testament to resilience and a connection to the land that sustains us. In the evenings, I visit the elder women of our community, sharing stories and collecting their time-honored recipes. They share their memories of life closer to the land, of simpler times when meals were prepared with ingredients freshly grown and harvested. These conversations are precious, each recipe a treasure passed down through generations, a living testament to the continuity of our culture.

The preparation of our family's tamales is a ritual, a dance between tradition and practicality. While our ancestors likely used whatever meat was available—rabbit, venison, pork—my modern approach often incorporates the abundance of vegetables from our garden. These vegetable tamales are a celebration of the seasons, a reflection of the bounty provided by our land. I still utilize the traditional methods of preparation, carefully smoothing the cornmeal paste onto damp cornhusks, creating perfect little pockets to hold the exquisite filling. My husband, Hutch, builds our adobe ovens, the hornos, perfecting the art of traditional cooking techniques alongside his more modern construction work.

However, I do embrace a small concession to modernity – my mini tamales. These smaller versions are popular as appetizers and snacks, perfect for gatherings. And I confess, Hutch and I adore them in green chile stews, cooked in the very horno he carefully crafts, bringing together our heritage and our love for delicious, simple food. Creating these tamales is more than just a culinary endeavor; it's a continuation of a legacy, a celebration of our heritage, a reflection of who we are as a family and as a people. Each tamale tells a story, a story as richly layered and complex as the history that shaped us.

The simple ingredients – the corn, the chiles, the squash, the cheese – all come from our surroundings, reflecting our deep connection with the land. They represent a heritage that reaches back centuries, a history etched into every grain of corn, every chile pepper. The act of making these tamales connects me not just to my ancestors but to the women who came before me, those elders who share their wisdom and recipes with such generosity. Each tamale is a small token of respect, an offering to the past and a bridge to the future. It's a tradition we intend to keep alive, to continue sharing these flavors and stories with generations to come.

The rhythmic folding, tying, and steaming of the tamales is almost meditative. The process itself is a form of mindfulness, a way to connect with the present moment while acknowledging the rich history embedded in every step. As I work, I'm reminded of the generations of women who have done the same, their hands shaping these little parcels of flavor and heritage. It's a profound feeling, one of continuity and connection, of belonging to something larger than myself. The resulting tamales are not simply a meal; they are a cultural experience, a tangible connection to our heritage. The taste, the texture, the aroma—they all speak to a legacy that endures, enriched by the blend of tradition and modernity.

More than a recipe, our family's tamales are a testament to the enduring power of tradition, a link to the past that nourishes us in the present and guides us towards the future. They are a symbol of our cultural heritage and our commitment to preserving the rich culinary traditions of the Pueblo people. The flavors are a testament to our land, and the act of making them is a celebration of our people and our history. It's a simple recipe, yet the story it tells is complex and deeply moving. It's a story worth sharing, savoring, and passing on to those who come after us.

Step-by-step

    • To prepare the husks: Separate the bundle into individual husks, place them in a pot of warm water over medium-low heat, and simmer for 5 to 10 minutes, until soft. Remove from heat, place a plate on top of the husks to keep them under water, and soak for 1 hour.
    • Meanwhile, prepare the dough by placing the masa harina in a large bowl. Knead in the butter. Add the vegetable oil. Add the salt and baking powder and knead thoroughly. Add the water, 1/2 cup at a time, stirring or kneading after each addition, until the dough is slightly pliant and rather pasty. Cover and set aside.
    • To prepare the filling: Warm the vegetable oil in a cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Add the squash and cook 1 to 2 minutes, shaking the pan so that each side of the squash toasts slightly. Transfer to bowl.
    • To assemble the tamales: Pat the cornhusks dry and cut into 4-inch squares. Cut some of the husks into thin strips for tying the tamales (cut at least 40 strips). Spread 1 tablespoon of the dough in the center of a husk square to create a 2 1/2-inch square. Brush a little chile sauce over the dough, sprinkle on a little squash, and then a little corn. Lay a piece of green chile on the middle of the filling and sprinkle with cheese.
    • As if covering a small package with wrapping paper, fold the sides of the husk toward the center, then the ends. Tie the bundle with a husk strip. When the tamales have been assembled, place upright on a steaming rack over boiling water. Cover and cook for 20 minutes. Serve as an appetizer or with a green chile sauce.