Turn up the Heat

together tonight. Miracle everyone is free, huh?” Blythe looked irritatingly perfect. Her loose-fitting sleeveless peach shirt showed off her beautiful skin tone. As usual, her maroon nail polish was almost totally chipped off, and as usual, she somehow managed to pull off the bizarre fashion faux pas without looking ragged.
    “I know,” I said. “I’m psyched to learn how to make tamales. What a cool idea!”
    “Yeah, I thought it would be fun,” Snacker said happily. “I got the recipe from this guy I used to work with a few years ago. Once in a while I make a huge batch like this and stick them in the freezer or give them out to friends. I’ve got enough here to make at least a hundred of them.”
    “Yeah, I can see that.” On the counter was a massive metal bowl overflowing with chicken thighs. A large pot of red sauce sat on the stove. I peered at the ingredients on the table. “What are you wrapping them in? I thought tamales were rolled in corn husks.”
    “A lot are, but these are Guatemalan tamales, so they’re wrapped in banana leaves. You can buy frozen banana leaves at some supermarkets, but I got these from this awesome Spanish store around here. Also, this recipe calls for chicken thighs on the bone. Lots of tamales are made with boneless chicken or pork, but the bone gives them much better flavor. My friend got this recipe from his mother, and the original calls for a whole bunch of lard. Who cooks with lard anymore? So my friend changed the lard to olive oil and added the onions and garlic to the sauce. Want to roll one?” I nodded and took a seat next to Blythe. As I filled and wrapped, I peeked at her out of the corner of my eye in search of any sign that she was guilty of murder. I found none. What was I hoping for? That in between wrapping tamales, she’d suddenly confess to a grisly crime she’d happened to commit earlier in the week? That she’d rise from her seat and try to strangle one of us with a banana leaf?
    Snacker, Blythe, and I continued wrapping tamales. Meanwhile, Josh took our finished ones and began to set them in a large Dutch oven on top of the stove that was lined with yet more banana leaves. The chefs were, of course, used to industrial kitchen equipment. Here at home, they were stuck with a decrepit electric stove with coils that unexpectedly popped out. It seemed to me that cooking here must drive them crazy!
    “How do you cook these exactly?” I looked into the pot. “Do you steam them?”
    “Basically,” Snacker said. “We pack the tamales on top of the banana leaves, fill the pot about a quarter full of water, cover it, and then boil it for a couple of hours. That’s why we wrap them all really tightly in the leaves and then again in foil, so we have perfectly sealed packets. We don’t want any water getting into the ones on the bottom.”
    When the pot was tightly packed, Snacker placed another heavy pot on the stove for another batch of tamales. “We have to cook all of them tonight,” he explained. “Then we’ll just stick what we don’t eat into the freezer, and they’ll taste perfectly fresh when we reheat them. I’ve already got a bunch done, and we should be able to finish making the rest pretty fast.”
    When I grabbed another Corona from the fridge, I saw that it held enough beer for tonight, plus fresh meat and enough produce to last for the next few weeks. Because Josh usually stayed with me, I hadn’t been here in a while, but it seemed to me that they were better stocked than on my last visit. I shut the fridge and looked around the kitchen. Open shelves were filled with bottles, storage containers, oversized plastic spice jars, and bags of flour and rice. I took a second look at the bottles, many of which were bigger than the standard-size ones I bought for myself at the supermarket.
    “Did you guys get these at one of those wholesale stores or something? This is the biggest bottle of sesame oil I’ve ever seen.” There were also many expensive olive oils and vinegars that I strongly suspected were too pricey for Snacker, Stein, and Josh’s budget. “Wait a minute! This is the same oil you have at Simmer.” I held up a very tall, slender bottle of Spanish olive oil. Its label had elaborate script and was covered with distinctive pictures of stone statues.
    Silence fell. Then Blythe giggled.
    The truth hit me. “Did you guys steal this stuff from Simmer?”
    “I don’t really think of it as stealing,” Snacker