The Best Chicken Quesadillas

The heat has settled in like a relative who is not leaving. One hundred and six degrees on Tuesday. The sidewalk in front of the bakery shimmers like water, which is cruel in a desert — the ground pretending to be the thing we need most. I keep a cooler of water bottles by the front door for the construction workers who come in for breakfast burritos, because water in June in El Paso is not hospitality, it is survival, and I will not let anyone be thirsty at my door.

Luis Jr. has been quiet this week. Quieter than usual, which for Luis Jr. is saying something, because his usual is already the silence of a monastery. I asked him if everything was okay and he said yes, and I asked him again and he said yes, Mom, and I asked a third time because I am a Mexican mother and we do not accept yes on the first or second try, and he said: "I'm thinking about the Army." Not thinking about thinking about it. Thinking about it. Present tense. Active consideration. My fifteen-year-old son is thinking about becoming a soldier and my heart stopped and then started again because hearts do that — they stop for your children and then they start again because your children need you alive.

I did not say no. I did not say yes. I said: "Tell me why." And he said, because it was late and the house was dark and the dark makes honesty easier: "Because I want to do something that matters. And because you crossed the border for us and I want to serve the country that let you in." And I stood in the kitchen holding a glass of water and felt every year of my life in my chest and thought: this boy. This boy who carries my immigration story like a flag. This boy who wants to serve the country his mother crawled to. I don't know if the Army is the answer but the question — how do I matter? — is the right question, and I will not punish him for asking it.

Sofia made empanadas at the bakery this week — apple, with cinnamon, a recipe we developed together that is not Rosa's but ours. She filled them too full, the way beginners do, and the filling leaked during baking and caramelized on the sheet pan, and instead of being embarrassed she scraped the caramelized apple off the pan and ate it with a spoon and said, "This is better than the empanada." She is eleven. She is already a chef. She just doesn't know it yet.

Diego came home from science camp with a sunburn and a hypothesis about why lizards do push-ups (to regulate body temperature, he told me, very seriously, over dinner). He is eight and he speaks like a documentary narrator, full of facts and theories and the absolute certainty that the world makes sense if you measure it correctly. I love his certainty. I envy it. The world has never made sense to me. I just learned to cook in it.

I made chiles rellenos this week — poblano peppers roasted and peeled and stuffed with queso fresco, dipped in egg batter, and fried until golden. Rosa's recipe, though Rosa used the small chiles from the garden in Anapra that were hotter than poblanos and made your eyes water just from cutting them. I use poblanos because my children are American-raised and their spice tolerance is a disappointment I have accepted with grace. The chiles rellenos were perfect — crispy outside, melting cheese inside, the pepper sweet and smoky. Luis had four. I stopped counting after four because a wife who counts her husband's chiles rellenos is a wife who has run out of things to worry about, and I have not run out.

Carmen called to say that Beatriz in Juárez says Rosa is worse. Not dramatically worse — not hospital worse — but the kind of worse that is measured in small surrenders: she stopped making tortillas because her hands shake. She stopped walking to the market because her vision is too poor. She sits in the kitchen and directs Beatriz, who cooks now, and Rosa tells her she is doing it wrong, which means Rosa is still Rosa, which is the only comfort I have.

I made the chiles rellenos because they were Rosa’s, and Rosa’s hands are shaking now, and cooking her food is the closest I can get to holding them still. But the night after Luis Jr. said the word “Army” and the house went quiet in a different way, what I made for lunch was quesadillas — because quesadillas are the thing I make when I need everyone to sit down, stop moving, and just be in the same room. Melted cheese is not a solution. But it is a reason to stay at the table a little longer, and some weeks that is enough.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 large boneless, skinless chicken breasts (about 1 1/2 lbs)
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
8 large flour tortillas (10-inch)
2 cups shredded Monterey Jack cheese
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 cup canned diced green chiles, drained
1/4 cup finely diced white onion
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided
Sour cream, salsa, and guacamole for serving

Instructions

Season the chicken. Pat chicken breasts dry with paper towels. In a small bowl, combine chili powder, cumin, garlic powder, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper. Rub the spice mixture evenly over both sides of each chicken breast.
Cook the chicken. Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken breasts and cook 6—7 minutes per side, until cooked through and internal temperature reaches 165°F. Transfer to a cutting board and let rest 5 minutes, then shred or dice into small pieces.
Mix the filling. In a bowl, combine the shredded chicken, Monterey Jack, cheddar, diced green chiles, and white onion. Toss gently until evenly mixed.
Assemble the quesadillas. Lay a tortilla flat. Spread about 3/4 cup of the chicken and cheese filling evenly over one half of the tortilla. Fold the empty half over the filled half to create a half-moon shape. Repeat with remaining tortillas and filling.
Cook until crispy. Wipe out the skillet and return it to medium heat. Add 1/2 tablespoon butter and let it melt. Place 1—2 quesadillas in the pan (do not crowd). Cook 2—3 minutes per side, pressing lightly with a spatula, until the outside is deep golden and crispy and the cheese is fully melted. Repeat with remaining butter and quesadillas.
Slice and serve. Transfer finished quesadillas to a cutting board and cut each into 3 triangles. Serve immediately with sour cream, salsa, and guacamole on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

The Best Chicken Quesadillas — When the Cheese Melts and the Worry Stays Warm