The tortilleria near our home in Mexico City was dark and tiny, with a machine that spat fresh tortillas out onto a conveyor belt, which carried the hot, puffy disks to a counter up front. The ladies who worked there would wrap a kilo in the cloth I'd brought with me. They were steamy and almost too hot to touch. As soon as I got home, I would sprinkle salt on one, roll it very tightly, and squeeze it so it stuck together. Our nanny nicknamed it pegada, the word for "stuck."