Growing up in Mexico and Japan as a “Foreign Service Brat,” I learned from an early age to appreciate the food traditions of other cultures. One of my earliest memories is of eating corn tortillas, heated over an open flame, salted, and smeared with butter.
The source of this golden deliciousness was not to be found in a supermarket or a convenience store, but in an elderly Indian woman. Seven mornings a week, she made her way down our street to ply her trade, her body bowed under the weight of the sack of tortillas she carried on her back. Stopping under the shade of a tree, she would put the satchel down in front of her and loosen the bindings to reveal the yellow disks nestled within.
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