So tomorrow the ubiquitous flour tortilla is all but ignored. For an entire year, day in and day out, it carries within its fragile walls our lowly bean, our stout potatoes, our lofty hopes. The tortilla tomorrow gives way for one day at least to dark and rich wheat rolls, buttery biscuits and melting loaves of white bread. Not a bad trade for a day of true thanksgiving.
But come Friday morning, the tortilla will again take on its burden and enfold our very sustenance within its hold. Yet it seems unfair, after so much toil and labor month after month, week after week, day after day, that it is relegated on the eve of our national thanksgiving to second chair on the operatic stage of family get-togethers.