Midnight Masa | Masa a Medianoche
"Late-night cooking sessions lead to early-morning confessions when two roommates share more than a kitchen"
Midnight Masa
Masa a Medianoche
I couldn't sleep, so I made masa. It's what my grandmother did. It's what I do.
"You're making too much noise," my roommate said, appearing in the doorway.
"Sorry. I can stop."
"Don't stop. Teach me what you're doing."
Her name was Elena. We'd been roommates for six months—polite, distant, ships passing in domestic night.
"Why masa at midnight?" she asked.
"Because my hands need something to do when my mind won't rest."
"What's keeping your mind awake?"
"Everything. Nothing. The usual."
She started joining me. Midnight became our time—mixing, kneading, creating something from nothing.
"You're better at this than me," she admitted.
"I've been doing it since I was five."
"Teach me to do it for life?"
I taught her. More than just technique—the feelings, the prayers, the way masa knows when you're sad.
"It changed," she noticed one night. "The texture."
"Because you're happier now."
"How do you know I'm happier?"
"Because I am too."
She kissed me over a bowl of perfectly mixed masa. Tasted like cornmeal and possibility.
"I've been waiting for midnight for weeks," she confessed.
"Just for the cooking?"
"For you."
We don't sleep much anymore. But our midnight masa sessions remain sacred.
"To insomnia," we toast.
"To what happens when we can't sleep," she adds.
Midnight masa—where restlessness becomes ritual, and late nights lead to love.