Hello and welcome. I'm Rosa. I'm 63 years old, I live in Fresno, and every Sunday I cook for my family, which is my husband Manuel, our six children, their husbands and wives, and fourteen grandchildren, plus whoever they bring, plus the neighbor, plus my comadre Lupe, who has been coming to Sunday dinner since 1971 and is not technically a relative but try telling her that. Some Sundays it's twenty-five. Some Sundays it's thirty-four. I have never once run out of food, and I'm not going to start now.

My granddaughter Cristina is at Fresno State and she made me this page. She said "Grandma, people would want your recipes." I said "what people?" She said "people on the computer." So here they are, people on the computer. These are the recipes my mother taught me in her kitchen in Selma, and her mother taught her, and I have taught my daughters and (after some struggle) my daughters-in-law. Nothing here is fancy. Everything here is real.

A word about my sons-in-law. I have three. I love them all. Two of them can cook. The third one, and he knows who he is, once asked me if I had "a recipe for the beans" and I nearly fell off my chair. Ricardo, mijo, this page is for you.

1. Wash your hands. Then wash them again after you touch the chiles. Then don't touch your eyes. Every year somebody forgets and every year I say I told you so.
2. Taste everything. The recipe is a suggestion. Your tongue is the boss. Salt a little, taste, salt a little more.
3. Lard is not a bad word. If you make tamales with shortening they will be fine. If you make them with lard they will be right. Choose.
4. Nobody eats standing up. Sit down. It's a table, not a trough. This means you, Ricardo.
5. If you're in my kitchen, you're working. Cristina is a college girl and she still chops onions on Sunday. The grandchildren spread masa. The men wash the pots. The third son-in-law dries.
6. There is always enough. If somebody shows up, you add a cup of rice and you put out another plate. My mother fed twelve on what most people would call dinner for four. It's not magic. It's beans.
7. Never let anybody leave hungry, and never let anybody leave without a plate for later. That's the whole point.

In my family, tamales are Christmas. On Christmas Eve, Nochebuena, we make them together, everybody, and it takes all day, and then we eat them at midnight after Mass and again on Christmas morning and again until they're gone, which is never, because we make about thirty dozen. That's not a typo. Thirty dozen. My mother made forty. Every family that makes tamales has a story like this and every one of them thinks their tamales are the best, and they're all right.

You can make them any time, of course. But you can't make them alone. Tamales are made by a line of people at a long table, and that's not just for speed; it's how the recipe gets passed down. The little ones spread the masa, the middle ones fill, the aunties fold, and Grandma checks. This is the recipe for about five dozen, which is a reasonable number for a first time. Cut it in half if you must.

The Husks

One big bag of dried corn husks (hojas), about 8 ounces. The night before, or at least a couple of hours ahead, put them in the sink or a big pot, cover them with hot water, and put a plate on top to hold them under. They need to be soft and pliable. Pick through and throw out the torn ones, or save the torn ones for tying and for lining the pot. Rinse off any corn silk.

The Filling: Pork in Red Chile

Do this the day before. It needs to cool anyway, and it tastes better.

• 4 pounds pork shoulder (butt), cut into big chunks
• 1 onion, cut in half; 4 cloves garlic; 2 bay leaves; salt
• 8 dried California or New Mexico chiles and 4 dried ancho chiles (mild, deep red; if you want heat, add a couple of dried chiles de árbol)
• 4 cloves garlic, 1 teaspoon ground cumin, 1 teaspoon dried oregano (Mexican if you can get it), salt
• 2 tablespoons lard or oil, 2 tablespoons flour

Put the pork in a big pot with the onion, garlic, bay leaves and a good tablespoon of salt, cover with water, bring to a boil, then simmer until it's falling apart, about two hours. Take out the meat and let it cool; save the broth, you need it for the masa. Shred the meat with two forks.

While the pork cooks, make the chile. Pull the stems and seeds out of the dried chiles (wear gloves, see Rule 1). Toast them in a dry skillet just a few seconds a side, until they smell good; don't let them burn or they go bitter. Put them in a bowl, cover with hot water, and let them soak about 30 minutes until soft. Put the chiles in the blender with a cup or two of the soaking water, the garlic, cumin, oregano and a teaspoon of salt, and blend until smooth. Push it through a strainer to get the bits of skin out; this is the step people skip and it's why their chile is gritty.

In the pot, heat the lard, stir in the flour and cook it a minute, then pour in the chile and cook, stirring, about 10 minutes until it thickens and darkens. Add the shredded pork and a ladle of the pork broth, and simmer another 15 or 20 minutes. Taste for salt. It should be a little saltier than you want, because the masa is bland. Let it cool and put it in the refrigerator.

The Masa

If you have a Mexican market that sells fresh masa preparada (already mixed for tamales), buy 5 pounds and skip to the assembly. I do, most years. But my mother made it from masa harina and so can you:

• 6 cups masa harina (the kind for tamales; the bag says so)
• 2 cups lard (or shortening if you must; see Rule 3), at room temperature
• 1 tablespoon salt, 1 tablespoon baking powder
• About 5 cups warm pork broth (from the filling), maybe more

Beat the lard in a big bowl with a mixer until it's white and fluffy, several minutes. This is what makes tamales light instead of like bricks. In another bowl mix the masa harina, salt and baking powder. Add the dry mix to the lard a little at a time, alternating with the warm broth, beating all the while, until it's like a soft, spreadable dough, a little softer than peanut butter. Beat it a few minutes more. The test my mother used: drop a little ball of masa into a glass of water. If it floats, it's ready. If it sinks, keep beating. Taste it for salt; it should taste seasoned by itself.

The Assembly Line

Set up the long table. Husks in a bowl at one end, then the masa with spoons or a spatula, then the filling with a spoon, then a tray for finished tamales. Everybody gets a station and a job.

1. Spread. Take a husk, smooth side up, wide end toward you. Spread about 2 or 3 tablespoons of masa in a rectangle over the wide two-thirds of the husk, leaving the narrow, pointed end bare and leaving an inch or so along one long side. Not too thick. Grandma will check.
2. Fill. A spoonful of the pork down the middle of the masa. A heaping tablespoon. Not more; the ones who put in more are the ones whose tamales split open.
3. Fold. Fold the long side with masa over the filling so the masa meets masa and closes around the meat. Fold the bare long side over that. Fold the pointed bottom end up. The wide top stays open. Tie it with a strip of husk if you're fancy; we don't.
4. Stack them on the tray, open end up, and keep going. Sing. Gossip. This is the part you'll remember.

Steaming

You need a big pot with a steamer rack or basket in the bottom and water below the rack, not touching it. Line the rack with a few of the torn husks. Stand the tamales up in the pot, open ends up, packed in so they hold each other up but not squashed. Lay a few more husks and a clean kitchen towel over the top, put on the lid, and bring the water to a boil, then turn it down to a good steady simmer. Steam for about an hour and a half, checking the water now and then and adding boiling water if it gets low. (My mother put a penny in the bottom of the pot. When it stopped rattling, the water was gone. It works.) They're done when a tamal comes away from the husk cleanly when you open it; if the masa sticks, give them 15 minutes more. Let them sit 10 minutes before you eat them; they firm up.

They freeze beautifully. Steam them again to reheat, 20 minutes or so. And now you know why we make thirty dozen.

The rice that goes with everything. The secret, and it's not a secret, is that you fry the rice first. If you don't fry it, it's just rice with tomato in it.

• 2 cups long-grain white rice
• 3 tablespoons oil or lard
• 2 ripe tomatoes (or a cup of canned), a quarter of an onion, 2 cloves garlic
• 4 cups chicken broth (or water and a bouillon cube, I won't tell)
• Salt; a handful of frozen peas and a diced carrot if you like

Rinse the rice in a strainer until the water runs mostly clear, and let it drain well. Blend the tomatoes, onion and garlic smooth. Heat the oil in a wide pot with a lid, add the rice, and fry it over medium heat, stirring, until it's golden and smells toasty, 5 to 8 minutes; don't rush it and don't burn it. Pour in the tomato puree (it will spit) and stir until it's absorbed and the rice looks dry again, a couple of minutes. Add the broth, a teaspoon of salt, and the vegetables if you're using them. Bring it to a boil, give it one stir, turn the heat down low, cover it, and leave it alone for 20 minutes. Don't peek. Then turn off the heat and let it sit, covered, 10 minutes more. Fluff with a fork.

For thirty people I make this four times over in two pots. For your family, this makes plenty for six with leftovers for the third son-in-law.

Yes, Ricardo, here is the recipe for the beans. There is a pot of these on my stove every day of my life. They are the beginning of refried beans, the beginning of soup, and a whole meal with a tortilla and a little cheese.

• 1 pound dried pinto beans
• Half an onion, 2 or 3 cloves garlic
• A sprig of epazote if you can find it (a Mexican market will have it dried); if not, leave it out, it's fine
• Salt, and a spoonful of lard if you want them richer

Pick through the beans and take out any little rocks or shriveled ones (there are always a few). Rinse them. Some people soak overnight; my mother didn't and I don't, it just takes a little longer. Put them in a big pot (a clay olla if you have one, a regular pot if you don't) with the onion, garlic and epazote and cover them with water by about two inches. Bring to a boil, then turn it down to a gentle simmer, partly covered, and cook until they're soft all the way through, two to three hours depending on how old the beans are. Keep an eye on the water and add hot water as it cooks down; the beans should always be covered.

Do not salt them until the end. Salt too early and the skins stay tough. When they're soft, add a good teaspoon or more of salt, and the lard, and simmer 15 or 20 minutes more. Taste. Serve them in a bowl with their broth, with chopped onion and cilantro on top and a warm tortilla.

To make refried beans: heat some lard in a skillet, add a few ladles of beans with some of their broth, and mash them with a potato masher as they cook, adding broth until they're the way you like them. That's it. Nobody needs a can.

Fresh salsa, chopped, no cooking. Make it an hour before dinner so the flavors get to know each other, but not the day before, because the tomatoes go soft.

• 4 ripe tomatoes, diced small (in the winter, Roma tomatoes are best)
• Half a white onion, diced small
• 2 jalapeños or serranos, seeded if you're scared, not seeded if you're not, minced
• A big handful of cilantro, chopped, stems and all
• Juice of 1 lime, or 2 if they're stingy
• Salt, about half a teaspoon to start

Mix it all in a bowl. Taste. More lime, more salt, more chile, until it makes you happy. That's the whole recipe. Cristina wanted me to write more but there isn't more. Put it on everything.

The green one. Tomatillos are the little green ones in the papery husks; they are not green tomatoes. Any big grocery store in Fresno has them now, and most Mexican markets anywhere.

• 1 pound tomatillos (about 10 or 12), husks pulled off and rinsed (they're sticky under the husk, that's normal)
• 2 or 3 serrano chiles (or jalapeños for milder)
• 2 cloves garlic, a quarter of an onion
• A handful of cilantro
• Salt

Put the tomatillos and chiles in a pot, cover with water, bring to a boil and simmer about 10 minutes until the tomatillos turn from bright green to a dull olive green and are soft. (Or, the way my mother did it, roast them on a dry comal or under the broiler until they're blistered and blackened in spots; that gives you a smokier salsa. Both are right.) Drain them, saving a little of the water, and put them in the blender with the garlic, onion, cilantro and a teaspoon of salt. Blend it, but not too smooth; it should have some texture. If it's too thick, add a little of the cooking water. Taste for salt. Let it cool.

It's good on eggs, on chicken, on pork, on tamales, on a spoon. It keeps about a week in the refrigerator, but it won't last that long.

Cristina says I have to say what's coming next, so: chile verde (pork in green sauce), my mother's capirotada for Lent, pozole for New Year's, and the flour tortillas, which I have never measured in my life and will have to measure for the first time at 63 years old. Also, Manuel wants a section for his carne asada. We'll see.

My friends on the ring: Miss Odette's Creole Kitchen for a different kind of red sauce, Sourdough Sam for bread, and Betty's Backyard Vegetable Patch, where the tomatoes come from if you're smart. Also: my neighbor here in NapaValley, The Weekend Winemaker, which is for the grown-ups.