The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

salsa

Salsa de tomate verde (tomatillo salsa) with huauzontles

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Even after almost two years in Mexico, I still like to buy salsa out of a jar. (Hey, it’s convenient.) But because this is the Week of Huauzontles, and the huauz requires so much care, I figured it’d be worth it to make a salsa molcajeteada — a salsa where you grind everything in a molcajete, and the ingredients come together because of your own strength and patience.

Mixing huauzontles and tomatillos was not entirely my idea. Yuri whipped it up in cooking class a few weeks ago, using huauzontles leftover from a soup we were preparing. He boiled tomatillos and serrano chiles and ground them up in a blender, and then stirred in the huauz. The result was so good that I slathered it inside a tortilla and ate it alone as a taco.

You might be asking: but can’t I just use a blender to make this salsa, too? Yuri did!

Yuri has magic blending powers, because when I tried to make a similar salsa in my own blender, it was watery and too acidic. The molcajete allowed me much more control over the texture. I kept a few pieces of tomatillo cáscara, and added roasted onion and garlic to mellow out the flavor a bit. An allspice berry, known in Spanish at pimienta gorda (literally, “fat peppercorn”) gave it just a whisper of a curry-like, cumin-cinnamon taste.

A typical tomatillo salsa has a well-balanced mix of acid and heat, and the huauzontles here don’t mess with that. They do add one key element, however: texture. The little flowery buds provide heartiness, and an almost artichoke-broccoli-like chewiness. It’s like eating a really good, spicy pasta sauce.

I served this over tortillas sandwiched together with refried beans, topped with a fried egg. Today I’ll probably eat the leftovers in a taco.

Recipe below.
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Guacamole de molcajete, and how to make it without fear

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I’ve always wanted to be an expert at making guacamole.

In my deep-seeded dreams for myself, I am that woman who throws a lovely, Mexican-food dinner party, featuring a simple batch of guacamole that blows everyone’s minds.

I could not make this dream come true, though, because I was too scared to make any. When I lived in Texas, I was on this guacamole high horse and didn’t want to use a recipe. So twice I made batches that were actually bad — one had too much lime juice; the other, too much onion. In Mexico City, I started making a kind of fast-food version of guac that combined avocados and Herdez salsa verde. It’s actually pretty good, but I felt a little ashamed to serve fast-food guac with something like homemade hibiscus-flower quesadillas.

Then about a month ago, I took a class on how to prepare salsas. We learned that the base of all guac is a pico de gallo — the combo of onion, cilantro, tomato and serrano chiles. You grind these things together in the molcajete and then add avocados. Top the whole thing with a few squirts of lime juice. That’s it. Doneskis.

I still didn’t have enough confidence to try it on my own, however, until I spent two hours seasoning my metate. Using just my two hands and a grinding stone, I had turned dried corn and beans into dust. Making guacamole? Pffft. That’s puny work.

About three weeks ago, with absolutely no nervousness at all, I used the ratios from my cooking class and whipped up a batch to accompany some quesadillas. The result was the best guacamole I’d ever made: buttery and creamy and evenly balanced, with a tang from the tomatoes. And I had made the entire thing myself. No Herdez.

I’ve since this a few more times, including at a party attended by some French tourists. They kept coming up to me and saying, “This is so good!” It was not exactly my dinner-party vision come to life, but close enough. I felt really proud.

Recipe below.
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The most popular Mexican condiments, and why I love them

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After a year-and-a-half of living and eating here, I’ve finally started to understand Mexicans’ deep, intense love affair with condiments.

For those of you who aren’t as well acquainted with how Mexicans — specifically chilangos — eat, here are a few examples:

1. People here eat pizza with Worcestershire sauce (known in Spanish as salsa inglesa) and snow cones with chamoy.

2. They eat sushi, gleefully, with gobs of cream cheese.

3. They pile tortas with layers of ingredients (do you know the torta cubana?) and mix seafood cocktails with ketchup and hot sauce.

4. Jugo Maggi, a concentrated, salty sauce, is ever-present at restaurants, to sprinkle on soup or meat or pasta. The vinegary, hot Salsa Valentina is often served too, to drench on saltine crackers, potato chips, peanuts and fruit.

Basically, a dish is not appetizing here unless it is salty, spicy, creamy, meaty and acidic all at once.

I used to turn my nose down at the whole 12-tastes-at-once flavor profile. But recently — maybe it’s taking my cooking classes or starting Eat Mexico — I’ve become much more appreciative of how peculiar and Mexican this is.

The torta, for me, has become a thing of wonder: a single sandwich, the base of which is avocado, tomato, beans and mayonnaise. (That’s the base!) The bread is scooped out to make room for the fillings, because it is not acceptable to pile less than one-inch’s worth of two types of meat, cheese, pineapple and a fried egg. (Depending on what you’re ordering.)

While cream cheese is not an authentic sushi ingredient, it is quite utilitarian in holding your Mexican sushi roll together, especially when said roll contains grilled onions and camarones al ajillo. Worcestershire sauce adds a salty umami kick to pizza. After taking a few bites, regular pizza suddenly feels… plain.

Lately I’ve taken to sprinkling Salsa Valentina on saltine crackers. It’s kind of like an appetizer and bar snack rolled into one. A year ago I would’ve never, ever done this.

I’m curious whether you find yourself adding a bunch of condiments to your food, too. What are your favorites?