During my summer 2022 internship with Modern Memoirs, I wrote a blog post about my grandparents’ house entitled, “A Comic, a Bomb, and an Essay: Finding Stories in My Abuela’s Stuff.” Writing this piece inspired me to start interviewing my abuela and documenting her experiences so I could continue learning about her and from her. Almost right away, I noticed that one of her favorite things to talk about was food—the stew she ate with neighbors, the croquettes made by the nuns at her secondary school, and of course, the burgers and hot dogs she first tried in the United States after emigrating from Spain in 1966. While it was sometimes hard to get her to share specifics about people or places, she never skimped on details about food, and I especially loved hearing her talk about dishes from her native Spain.
Spanish tortilla is a dish I will forever associate with my mom’s entire side of the family, who have all made or eaten it at several points; these include my stepfather, a Rhode Island native who has perfected his tortilla technique over the years of being married to my mother, and whom I consulted for his recipe. Unlike the flat Latin American version used for quesadillas and burritos, Spanish tortilla is best described as a thick, savory cake made up of liquid eggs and soft sliced potatoes (some add onions and delectable bits of chorizo, as well). There is an irony to the food’s status as a quintessential Spanish dish since the recipe could only go back to the 1500s when potatoes were sourced from American colonies under Spanish rule. I know of two stories about its inception. The first states that around 1835, during the first of a series of civil wars that rocked the Iberian peninsula throughout the nineteenth century, a housewife whipped up the first tortilla when a general made a surprise visit at her door. The recipe’s other origin myth states that a different general invented the dish to feed his many troops.
“food can act as a sanctuary, a point of rest and return, within the chaotic passage of time”
Without a definitive record to prove them, the stories strike me as equally dubious. And yet, like birth and death records, recipes hold valuable clues about where we come from and where we’re going since each of us holds a veritable menu of foods that have united our families and given shape to our cultural identities. The inclusion of a particular ingredient may evoke the tastes savored by our specific clan, or the volume of a recipe may recall the large gatherings of people fed by this particular food. The culinary history of the Spanish tortilla, with its Latin American potatoes, stories set amidst battles, and the dish’s very simplicity, prompts me to look past my own comfortable childhood memories to examine how tortilla reveals a legacy of colonialism, war, and poverty. After all, this food isn’t something you make to show off; it’s a food that could be thrown together by anyone with a chicken around, something you make to quickly feed people good food in bulk. And for me, tortilla is above all a family dish. I read the recipe like a vital record and grapple with my position at the end of a long line of family history that includes both Latin American and Spanish ancestry.
In my first year being fully moved away from home and living in an apartment, not college-dorm housing, making tortilla signifies the crossing of a threshold. I am now someone who can make and serve this family recipe, not just a kid who just eats it. The night I planned to make my first tortilla, my girlfriend arrived at my new apartment in the midst of coming down with a cold and fell asleep at 9 p.m. With a bowl of sliced potatoes rapidly softening in the fridge, I went into the kitchen on my own and followed the family recipe as best I could. The late hours slipped by as I worked in silence, imagining my parents and other family members acting out my same motions in their small kitchens. My arms strained as I lifted a pan full to the brim with tortilla filling and placed it atop the low heat of the stovetop burner. A second pan on top, attached by a clasp, ensured only a slightly challenging experience of flipping the pan to cook the other side. (A special tortilla pan can come in handy, and I’ve provided a link below.)
When the clock showed 11:58 p.m. and the second side was done, I unclasped the top pan and lifted it to reveal a beautiful golden behemoth. With effort, I carefully (but clumsily) slid the tortilla onto a large plate. Then I cut uneven pieces and devoured a slice, trying to memorize details of taste and texture to later describe to my family on the phone. Exerted, full, and happy, I collapsed into bed. The next morning, feeling much better, my girlfriend tried the tortilla for herself and happily took half of it back home. I might not have cooked for a family of six, but all the same, I got the calm sense of accomplishment and familial connection I was after.
No matter how much things change as people grow up, move away, or when new families are formed, food remains the same. In this way, food can act as a sanctuary, a point of rest and return, within the chaotic passage of time. Having crossed the threshold to become a maker of my family’s tortilla recipe, I realize that this dish doesn’t just bring me back to fond memories, it cements new ones, too, and it lets me anticipate future times when I will make it again. I can see the many tortillas I will someday make and the many people with whom I will someday share them.
Try the recipe for yourself if you’d like, with compliments from my abuela:
Abuela’s Tortilla
Ingredients
Olive oil
5 decent-sized russet or Yukon Gold potatoes* peeled and sliced between an eighth and a quarter of an inch
One medium-sized yellow onion, chopped
A decent amount of ham, sliced into cubes, and chorizo, roughly cut into chunks (optional)
7–9 eggs (depending on size of eggs and desired size of your tortilla)
*I asked both my stepfather and abuela for their recipes. My stepfather swears by russets while my abuela prefers Yukon Golds for their firmness. This time, I used russets (sorry Abuela!)
Steps
Fill a pot with a generous amount of olive oil and begin to fry the sliced potatoes.
When the potatoes seem half-done, throw in the chopped yellow onion.
When the onion begins to turn soft, add the ham and chorizo, if using, and continue to cook.
Whisk eggs in a separate bowl.
When your potatoes are soft enough to break apart when pushed, generally after 12–15 minutes of cooking, strain out your oil.
Place potatoes/ham/onion into a large bowl, ideally glass, in order to draw out heat.
Makes sure that the potatoes aren’t too hot before pouring in the eggs (you don’t want to cook them by accident! Try adding just a bit of egg first, to make sure they will stay liquid).
Gently mix eggs and potatoes together
Pour mixture into a pre-heated, oiled tortilla pan.
Attach the pre-heated top pan and flip, cooking the other side for roughly 5–8 minutes.
Slice into wedges, as you would a pie, and serve.
Cook time will depend on your stove, the size of your pans, the size of your tortilla, and your preferred level of doneness. (My family likes ours a bit runny, which is more common in Galicia and Madrid.) My tortilla took around thirty minutes total over medium-low, but I would reduce this next time.
Emma Solis is publishing associate for Modern Memoirs.
