Love, like tortillas, is all consuming.

New year, same love for tortillas.

Before I ever paid attention to what it was about food that brought me comfort, I understood that a tortilla basket placed on a dinner table in front of me meant that there was love present. It was a physical manifestation of the safe space we inhabited in that moment. Tortillas, corn or flour, sprouting out of thin air and into our plates served as the first friend of the day. Our first companion for whatever life threw at us in the coming hours. I wonder what it means then, that I could never get the recipe quite right?