Historiography of Huaraches
I recall with the clarity of the midday sun the time my cousin took me to buy my first huaraches. We went to a tianguis in Sahuayo. The market buzzed with voices, the smell of fried corn and leather, the rhythm of hammer on nail and braided straps. Every stall felt like a small altar to making. My first pair were the classic open-toe huaraches with a sole made from a recycled tire. They took weeks to break in; I remember the blisters, the stubbornness, the way they finally bent...
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