Michael Benanav, a longtime resident of Dixon, stopped by to talk tamales with neighbor Elena Arellano, who surprised him with his own home’s backstory of unrequited love and a curse.
A Morning in Dixon with Michael Benanav and Elena Arellano
On an icy, gray morning in the final week of last year, I visited Elena Arellano at her home in Dixon. Snow flurries drifted down as she welcomed me into her warm kitchen. She was doing what she’s done every holiday season since 1972: making tamales. Customers drive from as far as Albuquerque, while others stop in from just down the county road. For them, her name has meant the taste of Christmas for 50 years.
Elena Arellano.
The Tradition of Holiday Tamales
Food historians trace the holiday tamale tradition back to ancient Mesoamerican rituals later woven into Christian festivals. Others point to practical reasons: tamales are easy to carry, simple to store, and affordable for feeding a crowd. Arellano doesn’t know the origin. “I just know it’s always been like that,” she said.
Learning the Craft
Arellano loved eating tamales since childhood and eventually decided to master making them. “I just experimented until I finally got the touch,” she explained, spreading masa paste onto corn husks. She blends corn flour with chicken stock and lard or oil. “Spread it on the shiny side of the husks,” she added. “It’ll stick to the rough side.”
“The mix should be moist, so you don’t dry out the masa,” she continued. “There’s nothing worse than a dry tamale.”
Nearby sat pots of pork simmered in red chile and calabacitas with green. These two varieties are her specialties. Working quickly, she scooped, spread, stuffed, and wrapped, her hands moving with practiced memory. “I enjoy making them, and people like eating them,” she said. In 2021 alone, she filled orders for 130 dozen.
Pork tamales in a steaming pot.
Sharing Food and Stories
During a break, Arellano offered me pork tamales she had steamed earlier. They were smooth and rich with chile heat. As we ate, conversation turned to family.
Though she and I had never spoken much before, we’d known of each other during my 28 years in Dixon. My home once belonged to her aunt, Mabel. Whenever someone asks where I live, I just say, “Mabel’s old house,” and they know exactly which adobe I mean. Arellano reminisced about swimming in the nearby river during childhood visits.
Elena Arellano wraps a pork tamale.
The Mystery of Mabel
When I moved in, the house had been abandoned for years. I learned from neighbors that Mabel was still alive but had long ago been committed to the state psychiatric hospital in Las Vegas. The story I heard was that she had been abandoned by a fiancé, and heartbreak drove her to madness.
“That’s not what happened at all,” Arellano told me.
Mabel was the youngest daughter of Victoriana and Leonardo Martinez, who built my house. “Everyone called him ‘long legs,’” she recalled. According to family lore, a woman tried to lure Leonardo away from his wife. When he refused, the woman—rumored to be a bruja—cursed his daughter Mabel.
Arellano remembered Mabel’s unusual ties to owls and the moon. Over time, her behavior grew more troubling. Fearing for her safety, her family placed her in the hospital, where she lived the rest of her life.
Reflections and Connections
The story left me wondering. Did I end up living here because Leonardo stayed faithful? Could love really prove stronger than magic? Or perhaps even a witch wanted more than spells—she wanted to be chosen.
“Wait, I have something for you,” Arellano said, handing me a laminated black-and-white photo of Leonardo and Victoriana standing outside their barn.
Later, I carried the photo back to my house. It felt like a reunion, bringing the couple home again through an image. Then I brought tamales to a friend recovering from COVID, continuing another tradition of sharing food and stories.
Leonardo and Victoriana Martinez, with a couple of their grandchildren, in an undated photo.
Story and Photography by Michael Benanav
