The old woman's hands moved like water over the dough, each fold deliberate, practiced through decades I could only imagine. Her kitchen in Oaxaca smelled of corn and smoke, wood fire breathing life into clay griddles that had probably witnessed her grandmother's hands doing the same dance.
"Para las tortillas," she said, not looking up, "you must listen."
I'd stumbled into her courtyard that morning following the scent of toasting maize, abandoning my guidebook's recommended breakfast spots for something I couldn't name but recognized immediately—the pull of authentic ritual, of knowledge passed down through touch rather than recipe cards.