The hands are an extension of the heart
A chronicle about making empanadas.
I’ve had this text in my mind for a while, but two week ago I was cleaning the house and I found some old notebooks. Recently, a friend advised me to keep my notebooks around, after all, you never know when you might need them. I pulled a notebook from 2021 - that year I decide to study things that had always interested me. I studied neuroscience applied to food; food poetry, and alchemy. I think food is precise about the alchemy of being aware, feeling and transforming matter. In that book, from 2021… I found all the thoughts that turned into this text.
I hope you enjoy it. It’s called “The hands are an extension of the heart”.
I drop a good amount of flour onto the tabletop, creating a mountain of it. My fingers gravitate to the tip pile, and I pressed down, feeling the soft, cold touch of the flour. I push inwards again and experience my hand floating, and of course it takes me to the Amélie Poulain movie. It feels good.
I am about to make empanadas. It’s been a while since I last made them, but there is an urge inside me, a spark of life guiding the pace. And I surrender. I’m not even here. This thing that is about to happen just unfolds through me, led by the curiosity of my hands.
I’ve put on some music and it flows through the air, inviting me to dance slowly. I agree, convinced by the sweet smell of butter sizzling in the stove, melting perfectly with abundant amounts of onions – this, my friends, is the best-kept secret of a good beef empanada.
I continue with my tasks, leaving the pot behind me. I don't need to keep an eye on it because I know exactly where we are. The smell of onions cooking down tenderly, is a scent I could recognize from miles away. It tells me, “I need a little longer.”
I often think of cooking as intuitive, but that is only partly true. There is an undeniable, undeniable part of the senses. The smells, the sounds, to begin with. I proceed to add ground beef in the pot, and at this.. this sizzling is music to my ears. I add a little bit of cumin, a touch of sweet paprika and bell peppers.
I live by the advice “never take a recipe as it is,” and that has gotten me to good and very bad places. I don’t think the truth exists in something as subjective as taste. So I add some chopped olives, a pinch of chili flakes, salt, and pepper. The hands are an extension of the heart, so I just follow it.
I move on to the flour sitting on the kitchen counter. What happens next is a sort of alchemy. In goes the fat - in goes the water - in goes the salt. I start blending these ingredients together nd begin to see the texture of a wobbly, soft dough taking form. I roll out the dough with a patience that proves my roots: I am Latina, and we are persistent.
The hands are an extension of the heart. I know this the moment I hold the round dough on my hand. I’ve always perceived empanadas as tiny love letters. Everything from the content of the letter to the wrapping is an act of love. Right now, all I have in front of me are separate ingredients, and I am about to change that the moment my hands start moving. As I fold, pinch, and plait the edges of the dough, giving it its deserved name.
I move my hands with rhythm, like water flowing: always in the same direction. I place my empanadas side by side, in a tray, and notice how funky some of them look. Well, I realize these empanadas are so much more than love letters. They are who I was in the past, and who I today.
In the oven, the empanadas start coming to life in color and smell. I wait patiently, letting the power of fire do its thing. Empanadas are like love letters, yes, but they are not a booty-call type of love. You can’t improvise them. Empanadas are the type of lifelong nostalgic love. The one that asks for commitment and planning. The ritualistic, passionate type of love, where you give it all.
They are polyamorous. They are not meant to be prepared alone, and they are not meant to be eaten alone. I know that when people sit at the table and start passing my empanadas them, they will be eat much more than dough and meat. They will be biting into is my whole being: the music I listened to while I cooked, the mood of my hands when I folded the dough. And a part of my soul inside these little love letters.
This text and written for and presented at Kitchen Table on August 11th in front of a lovely audience. After going through the experience of reading my text out loud in front of a lot of people, I’m ready to do it again. What a pleasure it is to share the things you love.
Love,
Zai
adorei! ♥️