Tortillas for chili night

Every Wednesday night that we’re home and not sick, or not completely overwhelmed, we host chili night: Randy makes chili, I make cornbread and grate cheese, and people come over to eat it. Some bring side dishes or dessert, some bring an extra block of cheese or a can of beans; some just bring themselves because it’s been that kind of week, and we’re happy just to have them.

Jim and Darcy always brought something. They knew about hosting weekly gatherings; our chili night was modeled off the Sunday breakfasts they hosted for years before Darcy’s Parkinson’s made it too hard to continue. Sometimes they brought dessert–always a hit with the kids. Sometimes they brought a bag of popcorn–a hit with the kids, but groan-inducing for us as we anticipated the mess we’d need to vacuum up. On special evenings, when the meds were working just right and Darcy was having a good day, they would bring homemade tortillas–the kids’ favorite.

They would bring the tortillas in a woven basket with a tight-fitting lid decorated with colorful flowers. The kids would cheer when they saw this basket, and would race to be the first to get a tortilla–or two, or three, if their parents weren’t watching and the tortillas weren’t all gone by that point.

Over the years, many of us apprenticed under Darcy to learn how to make her tortillas. We have her recipe. We’ve made them under her tutelage. But they never turn out quite the same. We preferred just to have Darcy make them.

In January Darcy’s slow decline accelerated and, before we were ready, she passed away. The week she was on hospice, family and friends gathered around and shared stories of her laughter, her warmth, and of course her tortillas. The tortillas were mentioned in her obituary.

Now Jim comes to chili night alone. Each week he brings a package of store-bought tortillas.

It breaks my heart.