This has been one hell of a way to start a new year! First off, my Auburn Tigers won the BCS National Championship. Who would have ever thought? And guess what? I was supposed to be there. However sometimes life has other plans, and usually for the best.
You see, Santa Claus brought me two 50-yard line tickets for Christmas. I was going to head out to Phoenix with my best friend Jennifer for a once-in-a-lifetime trip. But plane ticket prices skyrocketed, standby started to look bleak, and a blizzard started heading our way. After much debate, we made the last minute decision to sell the tickets.
Turning lemons into lemonade, I decided the only way I would be content was to throw the ultimate football viewing party at "The Georgian." I immediately extended invites to anyone and everyone (Auburn fans or not, I needed as much support as I could get), and then got busy planning the menu. Alongside the usual suspects (pimento cheese and dixie caviar), I would need something ambitious and unlike any other. Hmmm... Tamales, anyone?
My love for tamales began while living in Los Angeles. I worked with an incredible Salvadoran woman named Hilda, whose love of food was second only to her love of family. After a tragic earthquake hit El Salvador, she started selling her tamales in an effort to raise money to send back home to her siblings. I wanted to help out any way possible so I signed up for 75. Not knowing what I could possibly do with 75 tamales, I did what I do best -- threw a tamale-eating party! Who was going to say no to that?
Although Hilda's tamales were traditional to El Salvador (meaning they are wrapped in banana leaves), my new passion for tamales knew no borders. I quickly discovered Versailles Cuban Restaurant's tamales doused with garlicy, citrusy mojo sauce bliss. Sheer heaven. So, needless to say, I couldn't think of a better food to serve for such a big game. But not Cuban tamales, or Salvadoran tamales, but Mississippi Delta Hot Tamales. Why? Because this is a Southern food blog, people.
I'd heard tamale-making was at least a two-person job, so I immediately enlisted the help of Walt. We don't spend too much time in the kitchen together due to my controlling tendencies, so I was excited to work together on this, and even more excited that he was excited. We started the day before the party not only because it was going to take a full day to make them, but also in case they turned out gross I could still make plans to order pizza.
For the most part, the process was actually very easy (boil meat, wait. shred meat. wait.). The only thing tamale-making really required of us is patience. Late into the evening and starting to see double, we drug Hunter (Walt's younger brother) in on the rolling action. By that point, every single piece of counter space was covered, every pot and pan was dirty (and I'd even borrowed pots from the neighbor), and the sink was filled to the brim with water and corn husks. The kitchen looked a bit like a nuclear war had erupted, but then again, when doesn't it?
The next morning I busted out my brand spanking new 32-quart tamale steamer. Not a totally necessary purchase, but definitely worth it in the long run ( I can see summer crawfish boils in my future!). The news reports in the background announced the arrival of the winter storm, and to stay home and stay warm. Not a problem. While the tamales simmered away, I poured myself a spicy bloody mary and let the pre-gaming begin. Neighborhood friends began trickling over, Walt got busy building a fire pit, and his older brother built a "snow tube" out of a baby pool. Yeah, we're from the South.
As kickoff loomed near (it seemed to be an eternity), extreme hunger finally set in. I piled steamed tamales on the kitchen island alongside all the fixings and told everyone to dig in. People went back for seconds, thirds, and even fourths, which I usually take to mean a job well done. I'm not going to lie to you, they were worth every single ounce of effort.
With cocktails refilled and bellies full, it was finally game time. I paced around the house with anxiety, butterflies swirling in my stomach and hives creeping up my neck. Man, football sure can be a brutal sport. The next three hours of my life were spent on extreme edge. There were ups and downs, laughs and tears, but -- tied in the final seconds -- my Tigers took it home with a field goal. With our season soundtrack blaring in the background (All we is do is win-win-win!!!!), I cracked open the cheap champagne, unwrapped all of our Charmin (to roll with, folks. What else would I do with toilet paper?), and did my victory dance.
Did I wish I was in Phoenix? Well, maybe a little. But looking at it now, I wouldn't have it any other way.