The air in the kitchen is dank, a stark contrast to the water my small, chubby hands retain the corn husks in.

On the other side of the kitchen stands my mom her hair tied in a bun, dark tendrils spilling. She pours in the remaining ingredients into a bowl, water, salt or maybe sugar, and mixes it with a wooden paddle.

Nowadays modern equipment produces instantaneous results yet my mom refuses to use it claiming it is not the same. My youth and inexperience prevent me from knowing if this is true. I have only tried her tamales, yet I doubt any other can compare in flavor, size, or shape.

   I look through the water, wrinkles have begun forming on the tips of my fingers. I feel like I am aging just standing here and it literally looks like it.

Having finished, my mom says, “Lay the husks across the table.” As the chef’s assistant, I do as I am told.

My sneakers squeak as I join my mom at the edge of the table. My feet curl anticipating my first attempt. In one hand she holds a wooden spoon, mixture peeking, on her left hand a corn husk.

She demonstrates. I mimic her behavior, yet mine hardly looks like hers. Even then she grins, pride gleaming in her brown eyes. She hands me a wooden spoon and I get to work. I do not get much better, yet I feel pride in my attempt and in my mother’s delight.

Next, we need water to cook the tamales, she opens the faucet, but replacing the usual abundant stream appear only water drops. Her face falls with disbelief, a few hours ago it had been fine.

My mom wakes up my dad who groggily goes to inspect the meter. Upon his return, a serious look marks his features. In a hushed voice, he tells my mom that the freezing temperatures caused a rupture. My mom’s visible panic is soon replaced by strong resolve. With a pitcher in hand, she walks towards the door. I follow suit. Our destination the only functioning source of water: the hose.

At first, I stare perplexed, yet as realization dawns, I rush inside. As she walks in I run out, my hand wrapped around a small cup.

It takes us only a few trips yet our cold hands, red nose tips, and rosy cheeks attest to a much longer journey.

Over a decade has passed yet in my heart this is a constant reminder that giving up is not an option. In life, I like to think that the boundaries we set are our only obstacles. After all, our mind, positivity, and proactivity can overcome anything but a poor mentality. I have come to understand that accomplishment is not measured by the outcome but by our effort. That with good will, love, and determination enjoying a warm, savory tamale is always possible at the end of the day if you overcome the missing water flow.