Yesterday I had a wild craving for fresh tortillas with beans and rice.
In Seattle I would have driven down south to assuage my desire in a restaurant where the cook always chided us for not letting the kids drink soda.
In Portland there were at least five good burrito shops in the neighborhood. But as far as I can tell, there are no good tortillas in England. Or at least not in Cambridge; I should not rush to judge an entire country based on the comestibles available in one university town.
Most of the time I think that nostalgia is an aberration better squelched than tended. Particularly when the emotion is attached to something completely out of reach. As a general rule I do not even remember what I have lost.
But tortillas are a different matter. Somewhere in my wicked youth I was lucky enough to know a woman who taught me how to make them. She made a big batch every week and while I dawdled around the kitchen she showed me how.
Tortillas will forever be associated with a kitchen that looked out over a forest, pressing dough between cold fingers, learning the rules of a family I did not claim, choosing a future that would allow no room for old friends and places.
Last night I pulled out a big mixing bowl, measured the masa, heated a pan, and started to cook.