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“You know the saying, ‘A woman’s place is in the home’? That’s the way we were raised.” My grandmother works her fist into a mass of tortilla dough. “We never had ambitions to go out and

work. It wasn’t like now--the school, the career, you know, everybody wants to be something. The whole idea was to grow up, get married, have a home, have children and raise them. Taking

care of the house and the kids, and cooking--that was just part of being a woman.” These days, my grandmother makes tortillas only when someone--her daughter, a granddaughter--begs. At 71,

she works two jobs, and recently moved out of her sprawling four-bedroom home into a compact one-bedroom apartment. “I’m not cooking the way I used to,” she says. “It’s hard to work in this

kitchen, it’s so small. And do you know I don’t have any oregano? I guess I haven’t needed it for a while.” Periodically, she gives me a tortilla-making hint. “If the dough seems too dry,”

she says, “put a little oil in your hand then knead it in.” Finally, she is satisfied with the dough’s texture. “Now you let the dough relax,” she says. “Sometimes I don’t. But you really

should. When you’re first starting out, you need all the help you can get.” She puts the dough in a bowl on top of the microwave, and turns to the _ nopales_ . When my mother and I had

arrived the _ nopales _ were already simmering in a double boiler. “I thought you’d be hungry,” my grandmother explained. But, like a well-prepared TV chef, she’s set a few demonstration

cactus leaves aside, on a cutting board she’s balanced on an open kitchen drawer. “First you need to buy the most tender _ nopales _ available,” she says. “The fresher ones have a bright

green color, like this.” She gestures at a leaf. “When _ nopales _ get older they have a dark green color and the skin looks drier.” As she says this, her face scrunches in mild disgust.

“Now, you take the nopales with a fork . . . “ She stabs one of the cactus leaves, picks up a knife and scrapes at the already dethorned cactus leaf. “See, you just do this until you get all

the little thorns. See? And you can take the knife around the edge here. Then when you’re done, you rinse them and just cut them in strips. It’s easy.” My mother rolls her eyes. “I used to

cook them in water years ago, until I wised up,” my grandmother continues. “But now I just steam them. You get more of the _ nopales_ ‘ goodness this way. They’re medicinal.” “Didn’t you

used to soak them?” my mother asks. “No,” my grandmother says. “Didn’t you used to cut them in cubes?” “I like them like this now.” My mother looks distressed. “Forget the past,” my

grandmother tells her. “Everything’s got to be new.” GUADALUPE OCAMPO’S NOPALES WITH RED CHILE AND PORK 6 medium nopales Salt 1 1/2 medium onions, quartered 1/2 teaspoon ground oregano,

about 4 medium cloves garlic, crushed 1 1/2 pounds lean pork, cut in chunks for stew 1 bay leaf Few sprigs cilantro 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves 1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns 1 large can red

chile sauce Peel nopales with sharp knife, removing thorns. Rinse and pat dry. Cut lengthwise in strips, about 3 to 4 inches long. Combine nopales, little salt, 1 onion, oregano to taste and

2 cloves garlic in top of double boiler and steam over simmering water until barely tender. In separate pot, barely cover pork with water. Add remaining garlic, 1/2 onion, salt, bay leaf,

cilantro, cloves and peppercorns. Bring to boil, then simmer, covered, until pork is tender, but not overcooked. Remove cilantro and bay leaf. Place red chile sauce in another saucepan and

simmer few minutes. Add to simmering meat with nopales. Makes 4 to 6 servings. MORE TO READ