Beef Enchiladas Verdes

Rosa's seventh death anniversary. September 15. Seven years. Rosa's holy number. Seven years of the chile colorado. Seven years of the candles. Seven years of the bathroom floor. Seven years of the promise — the recipe notebook, the bakery, the name on the door, the bread that travels and feeds and remembers. Seven. Complete. The number that means completion in Rosa's theology and in the theology of every woman who has ever counted the years since her mother died and found meaning in the number, because meaning is the only thing that makes the counting bearable.

The ofrenda at the bakery has five faces: Rosa, Alejandro, Javier, Javier, and now — a new addition from Sofia — Abuela Consuelo, Rosa's mother, Maria Elena's grandmother, the woman who came before Rosa the way Rosa came before Maria Elena, the woman whose recipes fed Rosa's recipes, whose hands taught Rosa's hands, whose kitchen in another part of Chihuahua (before Anapra, before Juárez, before the maquiladoras) was the original kitchen, the first kitchen, the kitchen where the chain began. Sofia found a photograph — Carmen had one, faded, black and white, a woman with a rebozo and strong hands standing in front of a stove — and the photograph joined the wall, and the wall now holds five faces, and the five faces are the five generations of the recipe chain: Consuelo to Rosa to Maria Elena to Sofia. Four women. Five faces (including the two Javiers and Alejandro who are not the chain but are the casualties of the world the chain exists in).

I made chile colorado. Year seven. Rosa's holy number year. The chile colorado tasted the same as always and different from always, because seven is the number of completion and completion changes everything, even things that don't change. The chile colorado at seven years is not the same chile colorado as year one — not because the recipe changed but because I changed, and the changed cook makes the same recipe differently, and the differently is imperceptible to the tongue but perceptible to the soul, and the soul knows the difference between a sauce made by a grieving woman and a sauce made by a woman who has carried the grief for seven years and found the room for it inside herself and closed the door and opened it and closed it and the opening and closing is the seven years.

Seven is the number of completion, and completion asked me to cook something that honored both loss and continuity — something with chile, with beef, with a sauce that required patience and time, the way grief requires patience and time. I didn’t have the exact recipe Rosa would have made that first year, but I had my hands and her teaching in my hands, and so I turned to enchiladas verdes, because the sauce still demands everything of you, and giving everything to the pot is exactly what the seventh year asked me to do. This is the dish I made after lighting the candles, after standing at the ofrenda, after seeing Abuela Consuelo’s photograph on the wall for the first time — four women, one kitchen, one table.

Prep Time: 25 min | Cook Time: 40 min | Total Time: 1 hr 5 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 1/2 lbs beef chuck or skirt steak, cut into small cubes
1 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 medium white onion, diced (divided)
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 lb tomatillos, husked and rinsed
3–4 poblano or Hatch green chiles, roasted and peeled
1/2 cup fresh cilantro leaves
1/2 cup chicken broth
1 teaspoon cumin
12 corn tortillas
1 1/2 cups shredded Monterey Jack or Oaxacan cheese
1/2 cup Mexican crema or sour cream, for serving
Sliced radishes and fresh cilantro, for garnish

Instructions

Season and sear the beef. Pat beef cubes dry and season with salt and pepper. Heat oil in a heavy skillet or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Working in batches, sear beef until browned on all sides, about 4–5 minutes per batch. Transfer to a plate and set aside.
Build the base. In the same pan, reduce heat to medium. Add half the diced onion and cook until softened, about 4 minutes. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more, stirring to prevent burning.
Make the verde sauce. Place tomatillos in a saucepan, cover with water, and simmer 10 minutes until soft. Drain and transfer to a blender with roasted chiles, remaining onion, cilantro, chicken broth, cumin, and a pinch of salt. Blend until smooth. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Braise the beef. Return seared beef to the pan. Pour two-thirds of the verde sauce over the meat. Cover and simmer over low heat for 20–25 minutes, until beef is tender and sauce has thickened slightly. Shred beef lightly with two forks, mixing it into the sauce.
Warm the tortillas. Heat tortillas one at a time directly over a gas flame or in a dry skillet for 20–30 seconds per side until pliable. Keep warm wrapped in a clean kitchen towel.
Fill and roll. Preheat oven to 375°F. Spread 1/4 cup of the reserved verde sauce on the bottom of a 9×13-inch baking dish. Spoon 2–3 tablespoons of beef filling down the center of each tortilla, add a pinch of cheese, roll tightly, and place seam-side down in the dish. Repeat with remaining tortillas.
Sauce and bake. Pour remaining verde sauce evenly over the enchiladas. Top with remaining shredded cheese. Bake uncovered for 18–20 minutes, until sauce is bubbling and cheese is melted and lightly golden at the edges.
Serve. Remove from oven and let rest 5 minutes. Drizzle with crema, garnish with radishes and fresh cilantro, and serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Beef Enchiladas Verdes — The Sauce That Holds Seven Years of Memory