The house that was
home for so many years, the house not far from where we live today, the house
that was also a fair trade store, where our children grew up and where we
experienced so much joy and heartache over their chronic health problems, was
located across the street from a tortilleria.
We needed only cross the street to obtain fresh tortillas, and, at
Christmastime, tamales. I will never
forget the smell of tortillas being produced—the timeless
smell of white corn soaked in lime, of masa being gently toasted into planets
of natural sweetness. It makes me think
of Hermann Hesse’s famous essay, “Über das Wort Brot” (“On the Word Bread”),
where he says:
Man braucht es nur
auszusprechen und das in sich einzulassen, was es enthält, so sind schon alle
unsere Lebenskräfte, die des Leibes wie die der Seele angerufen und in
Tätigkeit versetzt. Magen, Gaumen, Nase, Zunge, Zähne, Hände sprechen mit. Es
fällt uns der Eßtisch im Vaterhause ein. Rundum sitzen die lieben vertrauten
Gestalten der Kindheit. Vater oder Mutter schneidet vom großen Leib die Stücke
und bemißt ihre Größe und Dicke, je nach dem Alter oder Hunger des Empfängers.
In den Tassen duftet die warme Morgenmilch. Oder es fällt uns ein, wie es ganz
früh am Morgen, noch bei halber Nacht, vom Haus des Bäckers her gerochen hat,
warm und nahrhaft, anregend und begütigend, hungerweckend und ihn halb auch
schon stillend. Und weiter erinnern wir uns durch die ganze Weltgeschichte
hindurch alle Szenen und Bilder in denen das Brot eine Rolle spielt.
One only needs to
utter it, to admit the word’s content into oneself, and already all our vital
forces, those of both the body and the soul, are invoked and stirred into
action. Stomach, palate, nose, tongue, teeth, hands, also utter the word. We
are put in mind of the dining room table in our father’s house. Around it are
seated the dear familiar figures of childhood. Father or mother are cutting
slices from the large loaf, appraising their size and thickness, according to
the age and hunger of the recipient. From the cups comes the smell of the hot
morning milk. Or we recall, very early in the morning, when it was still half
night, the aroma wafting from the direction of the baker’s house, warm and
nourishing, stimulating and soothing, arousing, and also half-sating, a feeling
of hunger. And, thinking on, we recall all the scenes and images in which, down
through the entire history of the world, bread has played a role.
Today, this is all
I wish to invoke in my writing. I won’t
disown the language games that I’ve already played, some of which have yet to
see the light of day, but I want to speak with simplicity and faithfulness of
the humble bread that belongs to the world into which I was born and the
neighborhood where I have spent most of my life—the fresh tortilla—and of those
neighbors of mine who feast on it every day.
