Enchilada Lasagna — The Sunday Pan with Tortilla Layers

I started writing the Cody piece for the anthology Tuesday night after we ate the last of the shredded beef quesadillas, and I worked on it every night that week from about nine until midnight at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee that went cold three times before I finished. Marcus had told the group on Wednesday what each of us was being asked for, and the piece he wanted from me was the one I’d written in fragments across two weeks — the one about the visitation pass folded into a square, the way Cody’s laugh sounded different in the visitation room than it had in our kitchen, the way Mama had stopped saying his name in front of strangers since the sentencing. He wanted me to expand it. He wanted the whole arc.

Mama saw the kitchen light on at eleven Wednesday night and came downstairs in her robe and asked if I was okay. I told her I was writing about Cody for the library anthology. She didn’t say anything for a beat. Then she went to the coffee pot, poured herself a cup of what was left, and sat down at the kitchen table across from me without putting her glasses on, just sat there with both hands around the mug looking at me. She didn’t read what I’d written. She didn’t ask. After about three minutes she said, “You know I love him too.” She does, and I’d almost forgotten in the way you can almost forget that the sun is still there behind the clouds. Cody is sixteen years older than me. He’s Mama’s firstborn. The whole reason I exist is that Travis came along years after Cody’s daddy walked, and the whole reason Mama is the woman she is now is that Cody happened to her at eighteen and changed everything she thought her life was going to be. The piece changed after that conversation. It got bigger. It got truer.

Sunday I made enchilada lasagna because Mama wanted something that would feed her for three nights of leftovers and that she could eat between shifts standing up in front of the open refrigerator without bothering to reheat anything in a pan. Layered corn tortillas with seasoned ground beef — the eighty-twenty I browned with onion, garlic, cumin, and a packet of taco seasoning — refried beans straight from the can, red enchilada sauce from the two cans I’d gotten on a two-for-three deal at IGA last week, and the cheap shredded Mexican blend cheese from a two-pound bag. An eight-by-eight pan, four full layers, sauce-bread-meat-beans-cheese-sauce-bread-meat-beans-cheese, with extra cheese on the very top.

The bottom layer crisps where it touches the pan if you don’t grease the pan too aggressively — you want a thin film, not a pool — and the top blisters and browns under the broiler at the end for about three minutes, which I watch through the oven window because at four minutes it goes from beautiful to scorched. The middle is the texture of a wet enchilada that’s been allowed to relax into itself, all the layers melted into each other so that when you cut a square the corn tortilla is no longer a separate thing but more like a slightly chewy ribbon running through the cheese-and-bean middle. It cuts cleanest after it’s rested twenty minutes, which I’ve learned from making it three times.

Wednesday at writing program, Iris asked me before the session started if she could read me her revision of the grandmother piece privately before the rest of the class heard it. We stayed in Marcus’s empty classroom for twenty minutes after the session ended — just the two of us, the door cracked, the building’s air conditioner clicking on and off — and she read me all eleven pages slowly. I cried. I’d cried at her piece the first time, but not like this. The lotion sections had each been tightened by about half. The grandmother’s last sentence in the piece had been nine words and was now four. The middle had three new lines I hadn’t seen before that did more work than the paragraph they replaced. When she finished, she set the pages down on the desk and asked what I thought. I said it had become impossible to put down, which was the only honest thing I could think to say. She said, very quietly, “That’s because of your close reading. You showed me exactly what was working so I could do more of it on purpose.” I drove home in the truck with the windows down because I needed air on my face the whole way.

Four layers, eight-by-eight pan, twenty-minute rest. Here’s the build.

Enchilada Lasagna

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 40 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour | Servings: 12

Ingredients

• 2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cooked and shredded
• 1 can (28 oz) red enchilada sauce
• 1 can (10 oz) diced tomatoes with green chiles, drained
• 1 can (15 oz) black beans, drained and rinsed
• 1 can (15 oz) corn, drained
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1 teaspoon chili powder
• 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
• 12 corn tortillas (6-inch), cut in half
• 3 cups shredded Mexican blend cheese, divided
• 1/2 cup sour cream, for serving
• 1/4 cup sliced green onions, for serving

Instructions

1. Preheat oven. Heat oven to 375°F. Lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking dish with nonstick spray.
2. Make the filling. In a large bowl, combine shredded chicken, enchilada sauce, diced tomatoes with chiles, black beans, corn, cumin, chili powder, and garlic powder. Stir until everything is evenly coated.
3. Layer the base. Spread about 1/2 cup of the chicken mixture across the bottom of the baking dish in a thin layer to prevent sticking.
4. First tortilla layer. Arrange a single layer of halved corn tortillas over the sauce, overlapping slightly to cover the bottom of the dish.
5. Add filling and cheese. Spoon one-third of the remaining chicken mixture over the tortillas and spread evenly. Sprinkle with 3/4 cup of shredded cheese.
6. Repeat layers. Add another layer of tortillas, another third of the filling, and another 3/4 cup of cheese. Repeat once more so you have three complete layers of tortillas and filling.
7. Top with cheese. Finish with any remaining tortillas, the last of the filling, and the final 3/4 cup of cheese spread evenly over the top.
8. Bake covered. Cover tightly with aluminum foil and bake for 25 minutes, until the casserole is heated through and bubbling around the edges.
9. Bake uncovered. Remove foil and bake an additional 10–15 minutes until the cheese on top is melted, golden, and slightly crispy at the edges.
10. Rest and serve. Let the casserole rest for 10 minutes before cutting. Serve topped with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkle of sliced green onions.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 310 | Protein: 26g | Fat: 11g | Carbs: 28g | Fiber: 4g | Sodium: 620mg