viragette

I had a party on Saturday night. I can’t explain it, but having 40 people over has somehow, in my mind, transformed my new apartment into my home.

Until I started cooking for the party 3 weeks ago, I had spent every Saturday since moving to Milwaukee in Chicago. It was a Saturday morning routine, and my travel buddy and I even had a regular breakfast stop along the way. Ham and eggs.

I gave up my wandering ways, and started staying home to cook tamale fillings. They pilled up in the freezer. Over two weeks, I spent hours making masa, rehydrating the corn husks and wrapping thawed and fresh fillings in husks and banana leaves. Countless trips to the El Rey Mercado on 16th. I had friends over to help wrap them, and we drank beer and talked about work and then went out to have dessert at the wine-bar off Brady.

(For shame.  My “Welcome to the Middle Class” pamphlet is getting depressingly well-thumbed.)

People started to arrive at 4:00 on Saturday. There were 4 types of tamales: vegetarian with spicy eggplant, sweet potato and roasted red bell pepper; chicken; pork with peppers; and spicy pork with peppers and sweet potato. I set out the savory humitas, but reserved the sweet ones with fresh grated coconut and carmalized, rum flavored milk pudding - because I didn’t think they tasted as good as they sounded.

People kept arriving for 2-3 hours. I was running around, greeting, tending, helping guests cook dishes they’d brought and rescuing stranded party-goers. Little kids were laying on the floor in the second bedroom, coloring and reading my TinTin books. I hardly ate a thing. I made conversation until my head was fit to burst. I kept losing my one glass. I had a wonderful time.

When it was over, my clean-up buddy asked me why I’d wanted to go to all the effort. I could explain, but it’s more honest to say - I don’t really know. I wanted to and I had fun.

Now if only I could figure out how to get rid of all that Chardonnay.