mimi's oaxaca

There were several moments I was almost moved to tears on this solo Oaxacan excursion of mine. Mimi's cooking class was one of them. When we gathered around the table of laid out ingredients, I just felt overcome with...some kind of emotion and didn't even realize I was beginning to well up before everyone else gathered around the table. Let's not cry over a table of mise en place in front of these strangers, Amelia.

I guess the morning was priming me for tears.

We were greeted outside the city by Simba, the sweet but temperamental (it's okay, I understand Simba) pup who was not shy about begging for scraps at the table. Mimi and her son, Charlie introduced themselves and put us to work right away making fire roasted salsas in these ceramic piggies.

I went a bit overboard with the serranoes because I didn't know it'd be for breakfast, so it was a bit aggressive, but I licked the bowl clean and was very conscious of my breathing for the next couple hours.

The salsa was for the memelitas, mini thicc tortillas topped with refried beans and queso - I could eat a bucket of these guys during the trailers before a movie.

Mimi went around the table practicing everyone's names and collecting life stories - where we're from, what we do, when we're getting married (just kidding, that was just a question for the couple in our group). She told us about her family, and Charlie explained how their cooking class came to be. They teach on the weekdays and run the family restaurant on the weekends.

Memelitas + tummy burning salsa were washed down with chocolate de agua, drinking chocolate. Not exactly hot chocolate. It's thinner, lighter, just barely sweet, spiced with cinnamon, and used for dipping lard bread.

I was ready to take a nap before the day even started.

Except then I was crying around the prep table.

Mimi had the man of the group pour us each a mezcal shot before we got started. Honestly it's a miracle (but not really) I didn't have any random adverse digestive issues on this trip (because I am made for vacations, not work).

Maiz mezcal is a specially made bottle for their weekend restaurant because of course Charlie's friend has a distillery. At the risk of romanticizing everything on vacation, I kept thinking about whether I should quit and move to Oaxaca... but only if Mimi would take me.

On the docket that day - nopales and lima soup. 

Pork tamales with salsa verde. 

Mole estofado with chicken.

Mimi clearly knows how to run a kitchen. She set the seven of us off on our tasks, and there were many. I bounced between prepping veggies and shredding meat. Mimi would walk around, tasting and watching and correcting us - all of us just trying to make her proud, smiling when she would compliment our work and nodding when she would tell us to add salt, more salt.

I got to knead the tortilla dough, and I went first after Mimi's demonstration to grind the mole paste on the giant molcajete.

Narrowly avoided prepping the masa for the tamales and having to strain the gallons of mole sauce. Drank a Corona while standing around watching things simmer. Did some manual labor in the form of fanning the coals to reduce the mole. At one point, I kid you not, two bleating sheep were brought through the open kitchen to the back area behind a curtain - Sunday barbacoa fresh from the farm..?

Damn I wished I stayed 'til Sunday.

Folded several tamales.

Learned that the masa should actually be more like a batter and not a dough.

We all loved the giant pots so much that I almost convinced myself I could buy one at the market and haul it on the plane with me as my carry on.

I felt the same about this molcajete. But then logic overtook me and I had to be realistic about when and where I'd ever use either of these things.

And then Mimi brought us to a little hut in the back to press our own tortillas.

Do I... need a tortilla stone oven thing?

We finally sat down around 3 to eat a late lunch with many more mezcal shots and fresh guava juice from the trees in the front of the restaurant. I saw why breakfast was so hearty.

We ate in silence, after drooling during the tortilla demonstration, stomaches starting to gurgle at the sight of the bubbling mole. The sound of knives and spoons clicking against the ceramic dishes and nothing else. The sight of a clean plate leading Mimi to ask, seconds? Eat more.

Truly like being in my own home.

We rolled into our taxis to go back to town. I felt heavy with happiness, wishing I pocketed an extra tamale before I left, and wondering if I could find any space for dinner because there was so much more to eat in Oaxaca.

I could not - I had two mezcal cocktails for dinner that evening.