Enchiladas with Roasted Red Pepper Sauce

The twins had their first Halloween costume fitting this week, which is a phrase that makes it sound more organized than it was. Marco wants to be a dinosaur. Elena wants to be a dinosaur. You'd think this would simplify things. You'd be wrong. Marco wants to be a T-Rex. Elena wants to be a triceratops. The T-Rex costume comes in green. The triceratops comes in purple. Elena wants a green triceratops. Target does not make a green triceratops. Lisa said, "She can be a purple triceratops." Elena's face suggested that Lisa had proposed something on par with a war crime. I stayed out of it. I've coached seventeen-year-old linebackers who are easier to negotiate with than a three-year-old with opinions about color.

Hard game Friday. Cherokee Trail — physical, well-coached, a running team that wants to shorten the game and keep your offense off the field. They held the ball for thirty-seven minutes. Thirty-seven. We had the ball for twenty-three minutes and still won 14-10 because Marcus threw two touchdowns and the defense — Darnell's defense, I'm starting to think of it that way — gave up nothing in the second half. 7-0. Seven and oh. I stood on the sideline after the final whistle and thought: this is real. This isn't a good start. This is a good team. Then I reminded myself that the season isn't won in October, packed up the film, and started preparing for next week. A coach who celebrates in October is a coach who loses in November.

I made carne adovada this weekend — pork cubed and braised in red chile sauce until it falls apart at the suggestion of a fork. Dried red chile pods — New Mexican, not ancho, not guajillo, the real thing, which I order by the pound from a farm stand in Hatch that ships because God is merciful and the postal service still works. You toast the pods, rehydrate them in hot water, blend them with garlic and oregano and a little vinegar, and then you bury pork shoulder in that sauce and let the oven do the rest at three hundred degrees for three hours. The house smelled like my mother's kitchen. Sofia wandered in, book in hand, and said, "It smells like Grandma's." She's seven. She's already mapping smells to memories. That's how it starts — the food gets into you before you know what it means, and twenty years later you're standing at your own stove trying to get the sauce right because the smell is the only time machine that actually works.

Feed your people. The game is won at the table.

That moment with Sofia—watching her lift her nose from her book and reach for a memory she didn’t even know she had—is exactly why I keep cooking food that asks something of you. This week’s recipe isn’t the braised pork from my mother’s kitchen, but it’s built from the same foundation: dried New Mexican red chiles, patience, and the willingness to let the oven do the heavy lifting. Here’s how I put it together.

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

Ingredients

4 large dried New Mexican red chile pods (stems and seeds removed), or 6 dried guajillo chiles as backup
2 large red bell peppers, halved and seeded
4 cloves garlic, unpeeled
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium white onion, roughly chopped
1 teaspoon dried Mexican oregano
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
1 cup low-sodium chicken broth
Salt and black pepper to taste
2 cups shredded cooked pork shoulder or rotisserie chicken
1 1/2 cups shredded Monterey Jack cheese, divided
12 corn tortillas (6-inch)
1/2 cup white onion, finely diced, for filling
Neutral oil for softening tortillas
Crumbled cotija cheese, for garnish
Thinly sliced radishes and fresh cilantro, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Toast and rehydrate the chiles. Heat a dry skillet over medium heat. Press dried chile pods flat against the pan for 10–15 seconds per side until fragrant but not scorched. Transfer to a bowl, cover with boiling water, and soak 20 minutes until fully softened.
Roast the peppers and garlic. Set your oven broiler to high. Place bell pepper halves cut-side-down on a foil-lined sheet pan alongside the unpeeled garlic cloves. Broil 10–12 minutes until the pepper skin is charred and blistered. Transfer peppers to a sealed zip bag for 10 minutes, then peel and discard the skins. Squeeze garlic from skins.
Build the sauce. Drain the rehydrated chiles, reserving 1/2 cup soaking liquid. Combine chiles, roasted peppers, roasted garlic, onion, oregano, cumin, vinegar, reserved soaking liquid, and chicken broth in a blender. Blend on high 2 minutes until completely smooth. Strain through a medium-mesh sieve, pressing solids with a spoon. Season generously with salt and pepper.
Simmer the sauce. Heat olive oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Pour in strained sauce (careful—it will spatter). Simmer uncovered 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until it deepens slightly in color and coats a spoon. Taste and adjust salt.
Prep the filling. Combine shredded pork (or chicken) with 3/4 cup Monterey Jack, diced white onion, and 3 tablespoons of the red sauce. Stir to coat and season to taste.
Soften the tortillas. Heat a thin film of neutral oil in a skillet over medium-high. Pass each tortilla through the hot oil for 10 seconds per side until pliable but not crisp. Stack on a paper-towel-lined plate.
Roll the enchiladas. Preheat oven to 375°F. Spread 1/2 cup red sauce across the bottom of a 9x13-inch baking dish. Dip each tortilla briefly in the warm sauce, place 2–3 tablespoons of filling down the center, roll tightly, and set seam-side-down in the dish. Repeat with remaining tortillas.
Smother and bake. Pour remaining sauce evenly over the rolled enchiladas, making sure the ends are covered. Scatter remaining 3/4 cup Monterey Jack over the top. Bake uncovered 20–25 minutes until the cheese is melted, bubbly, and beginning to spot-brown at the edges.
Garnish and serve. Let rest 5 minutes out of the oven. Top with crumbled cotija, sliced radishes, and cilantro if using. Serve with rice and pinto beans, or alongside carne adovada when the long braise is ready.

Nutrition (per serving)

Enchiladas with Roasted Red Pepper Sauce — The Sauce Is the Only Time Machine That Works