Watching frybread go from a fist of pale dough pulled from a bucket to its final form, cumulus in shape and caramel in color, is like watching up-close magic. In a straw hat with a kitchen towel hanging from her shoulder, Lisa Sundberg pats, then pulls the dough with practiced hands, turning it to stretch under its own weight, pinching a few holes and laying it gently into the hot vegetable oil, where it bubbles and puffs, the oil
shush-ing like distant applause.
Frybread itself is a feat of metamorphosis. In Native communities across the U.S., frybread is a staple and a comfort food born from displacement and the destruction of traditional resources and foodways that were replaced by government commodity foods, dating back to the Navajo peopleâs âLong Walkâ from their homelands to New Mexico. âThe government made us make frybread,â says Kayla Maulson, Sundbergâs daughter and owner of the Frybread Love stand newly opened outside Cher-Ae Heights Casino
click to flip through (4) Photo by Jennifer Fumiko Cahill Frybread Love s Indian taco.
Watching frybread go from a fist of pale dough pulled from a bucket to its final form, cumulus in shape and caramel in color, is like watching up-close magic. In a straw hat with a kitchen towel hanging from her shoulder, Lisa Sundberg pats, then pulls the dough with practiced hands, turning it to stretch under its own weight, pinching a few holes and laying it gently into the hot vegetable oil, where it bubbles and puffs, the oil
shush-ing like distant applause.
Frybread itself is a feat of metamorphosis. In Native communities across the U.S., frybread is a staple and a comfort food born from displacement and the destruction of traditional resources and foodways that were replaced by government commodity foods, dating back to the Navajo people s Long March from their homelands to New Mexico. The government made us make fryb
Sharing the Frybread Love: A Taste of Native Comfort Food
From left: Emma Sundberg, Aliesha Brown, Lisa Sundberg and Kayla Maulson at the Frybread Love stand. Photo by Jennifer Fumiko Cahill
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Watching
frybread go from a fist of pale dough pulled from a bucket to its
final form, cumulus in shape and caramel in color, is like watching
up-close magic. In a straw hat with a kitchen towel hanging from her
shoulder, Lisa Sundberg pats, then pulls the dough with practiced
hands, turning it to stretch under its own weight, pinching a few
holes and laying it gently into the hot vegetable oil, where it