You Can Help with the Olives

“You can help with the olives.”

That’s what my dad said every time someone asked to help make the tamales. All it required was dropping in an olive before he wrapped the tamal in the corn husk. 

For decades, he busted out thirty-five dozen tamales in one weekend. 

“Help” would only slow him down. 

To “help with the olives” is basically the participation trophy of tamale prep.

My dad’s tamales were the crown jewel of our elaborate Christmas day meal, and everyone wanted in on the credit of making them.

I vowed to learn his method. 

I’m a professional crafter. High volume production on a deadline is my jam. “Leave the olives to the amateurs,” I thought.

I arrived bright and early to my parent’s kitchen for the first day of prep. 

“Every minute counts,” Dad said, downing his last cup of Folgers. “Let’s get to work.” Any other time, he was gracious, but with tamales - he became a Mexican Gordan Ramsey.

We boiled, seasoned, and shredded thirty pounds of beef and pork. 

Next day: Chile sauce! I snapped on the protective gloves like a true production queen.

• Pick up a dried chile pod.

• Remove the stem.

• Empty the seeds into a bowl.

• Place the pod into the pot of water.

So easy!

“Slow down and pay attention,” my dad said as he plugged in the food processor.

“Don’t worry, I’m good,” I replied, already strategizing a national product line for my dad’s red chile sauce.

Then…hmmm. Something lightly hit the inside of my nostril.

A chile seed.

I stepped back and glided my finger in and around my nose to retrieve it. Noticing a slight tingle, I removed my gloves, held my breath, and waited for my body to respond.

Damage done. My nostril now throbbed. Have you ever heard of chile cap-SAY-sin? 

Look it up.

“I’ll be right back,” I said as I hustled to the bathroom for a miracle remedy.

“We’re already behind!” my dad snapped. I felt his stress, as well as the leftover piles of chiles laughing at me. 

“Dear Lord, help me,” I whispered as I hopped onto the bathroom countertop and pressed my cheek to the mirror to find the seed. 

Imagine an inner-thigh burn from a hot cookie sheet - that was my agony.

Now both nostrils were on fire. And my upper lip. Everywhere that stupid gloved finger had touched.

Holding back a meltdown, I raced back into the kitchen - lovingly smiled at Dad, snatched a marble-sized piece of ice from the freezer, and sprinted back to the bathroom.

I rubbed that frosty nugget all around inside my nose. 

Relief, at last…until… I accidentally sniffled. And sucked up the ice chunk - which then became lodged in my upper nasal cavity.

This was 10X worse than the chile seed. I’m talking… a laser beam STING from my eye to my forehead. 

Clearly by now the ice traveled to my brain, right? 

I prepared to die. OMG, the headline: Crafty Chica taken out by a freak chile seed accident.

However, Future Kathy vetoed that plan.

Pressing my finger on the empty nostril, I blew out of the other one with Jedi-level force. 

It worked! 

That ice chunk BB shot out and ricocheted around the sink.

I wearily gripped the countertop, lifted my head and made eye contact in the mirror to see my face, splotchy and streaked from tears.

“Did that really just happen?” I asked aloud. “Did I just… save my own life?” 

I felt grateful, and… traumatized. So… I made my way to my little sister's former room and collapsed on the bed to process it all.

“KATHY! What the hell are you doing, are you NAPPING?” my dad asked from the doorway.

“Dad - a chile seed went up my nose? And I… I almost died!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I just need a few minutes.”

“Go home and rest,” he sighed. “Come back tomorrow. You can help with the olives.”