After I missed the Navajo taco party, IA and I fry up another batch of tacos.
I think the concept of fried bread has been around since Adam and Eve, or maybe since bread, and it seems like every culture has some sort of fried bread, hence, many people mistook the taco party for a ‘scone’ party. Basically the same.
But these masterpieces of fried bread—these were made from a recipe passed from Navajo woman to Navajo woman on the Arizona Rez…to Navajo son, and to IA.
“White people make it too thick,” says IA as he furiously rolls out the dough. “And they fry it too long in the pan.” He is the coordinator for our taco re-party. “Anyone who tried to help me make this has failed,” he continues.
Comforting. Still I’d like to try my hand at it, so to speak. “Where’s the recipe?” I ask. “Do you think I could do it if I’m enough Cherokee to register at a reservation?”
“Yes, I think that will help, actually,” he says positively, hopefully. I have my doubts. I had been kidding. Do Cherokees even make fried bread? Has anyone heard of Cherokee tacos?
But I’m game to try. I mix as precisely as I can (which is against my personal cooking religion); I sift flour and baking soda, add the wet ingredients at the appropriate times.
Insert hands.
“IA,” I call eventually. “This is very, very dry.”
“It will be okay,” he says, not looking, “just have faith in your inner Indian.”
I keep at it. Soon I add some warm water. Sticky. He finally inspects it. “Hmm, “ he hums, disappointed. “Well, that’s okay, I guess.”
It’s not okay. I have enough inner Indian to tell that. His dough was squishy; mine tough. His was almost delicate, mine could be handled by toddler’s hands and molded into shapes. He left the failed dough with me, distancing himself from the mess.
What can I do with this? I muse. Inspiration hits.
I roll the dough out for Cherokee cinnamon rolls, and I wonder, if Cherokees didn't bake before, they do now.
