By She is here. Mami is here. Luz Maria Ortiz, eighty-one years old, born in Bayamon, raised in Bayamon, married in Bayamon, mother of seven in Bayamon, survived hurricanes and husbands and the murder of a child in Bayamon, has left Bayamon for the first time in her life and she is in Hartford and she is three blocks away and she is HERE.
Ana brought her from the airport. I was standing in my driveway when the car pulled up, because I had been standing in my driveway for forty minutes because their flight was on time and I added thirty minutes for traffic and ten minutes for paranoia. Mami opened the car door and she looked — mi amor, she looked old. She looked older than eighty-one. She looked like a woman who had lost her roof and her island and her independence in the span of five months, and the losing had aged her in ways that time alone could not.
But she stood. She stood up out of that car and she looked at me and she said, Carmen, is dinner ready? And I laughed. I laughed so hard I could not breathe because my mother traveled fifteen hundred miles, left her island, left her home, left everything she has ever known, and her first question was whether dinner was ready. DINNER. Of course dinner is ready, Mami. Dinner has been ready for five months. Dinner has been ready since September. The pernil is in the oven and the arroz con gandules is on the stove and the table is set and there is a place at the head for you because you are the head of this family, the beginning of this food, the source of everything, and your seat is ready and your plate is ready and your daughter is ready. We are all ready.
She walked into my kitchen and she looked around. She looked at the big kitchen, the one we renovated, the wall we knocked down to make it bigger. She ran her hand along the counter. She opened the refrigerator and looked inside. She said, You have enough sofrito. I said, I always have enough sofrito, Mami. You taught me to always have enough sofrito. She closed the refrigerator. She sat down. She looked at me. She said, More garlic, Carmen.
More garlic. The first words Luz Maria Ortiz spoke in my Hartford kitchen. Not I missed you. Not thank you. Not this is beautiful. More garlic. Because more garlic IS I missed you. More garlic IS thank you. More garlic IS this is beautiful. In the language of Delgado women, more garlic is the most tender, the most loving, the most complete sentence in the world. More garlic, mi amor. More garlic forever. She is here. She is home. We are home.
Mami was right, of course — there was not enough garlic. There is never enough garlic. So while the pernil rested and she sat at the head of my table for the first time and looked around at her grandchildren like she was counting them to make sure they were all still real, I blended this sauce: bright, sharp, a little heat, more garlic than any recipe will officially tell you to use. Aji verde is Peruvian by origin, but bold green sauces that make your eyes water and your heart open belong to every kitchen where someone learned to cook by standing next to a woman who never measured anything. I put it on the table next to the pernil and I watched Mami dip a piece of bread into it and nod once, slowly, which in the language of Delgado women means: you did good, mi amor.
Aji Verde (Spicy Peruvian Green Sauce)
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 10
Ingredients
- 1 cup fresh cilantro leaves and tender stems, packed
- 2 jalapeño peppers, roughly chopped (seeds removed for less heat, kept for more)
- 4 cloves garlic (or 6, because Mami would want 6)
- 1/2 cup mayonnaise
- 1/4 cup sour cream
- 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
- 1/4 cup crumbled queso fresco or cotija cheese
- 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
- 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Instructions
- Prep the peppers. Roughly chop the jalapeños. If you prefer a milder sauce, remove the seeds and white ribs. If your mother is watching, leave them in.
- Blend. Add the cilantro, jalapeños, garlic, mayonnaise, sour cream, lime juice, olive oil, and queso fresco to a blender or food processor. Blend on high until completely smooth, about 60 seconds, scraping down the sides as needed.
- Season. Taste and add salt and pepper. Add more lime juice if you want it brighter, more garlic if someone at your table is watching you with that particular look.
- Rest and serve. Transfer to a bowl or jar. The sauce is good immediately but even better after 30 minutes in the refrigerator, once the flavors have had a chance to come together. Serve alongside roasted pork, grilled chicken, rice, bread, or anything that deserves it — which is everything.
- Store. Keep refrigerated in a sealed jar for up to 5 days. Stir before serving.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 95 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 9g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 160mg