Enchiladas Suizas

Mother's Day, and the bakery is packed. Twenty-eight cake orders. Sofia is running the overflow system she designed — a spreadsheet of orders, pickup times, and cake specifications that she manages with the precision of an air traffic controller. I am in the kitchen, making cakes and conchas and trying not to think about the fact that this is the third Mother's Day without Rosa and the third Mother's Day that I don't receive a midnight phone call that says "Feliz cumpleaños, mija" in a voice thick with sleep.

Luis Jr. gave me a framed photograph. Not a store-bought frame — a frame he built in shop class, from wood he sanded and stained himself. Inside it: a photograph of me and Rosa. The only photograph of us together. Taken at Luis Jr.'s baptism in 2001 — Rosa and me, side by side, Rosa holding baby Luis Jr., me standing next to her, both of us smiling, both of us young enough to think we had forever. The photograph is seventeen years old. The people in it are ghosts now — Rosa literally, and the young Maria Elena functionally, because the woman I was at twenty-four is not the woman I am at forty-one. But the connection between us — the hands, the bread, the line — that hasn't changed. That is the constant. The photograph shows the constant.

I put the frame in the bakery. Next to Rosa's other photograph. Next to my naturalization certificate. Next to Alejandro's photograph of the Anapra building. The wall behind the register is now a gallery of everything that matters: the mother, the daughter, the certificate, the dream. The wall tells the story that I cannot tell in words. The wall speaks for me.

Camila sang for me. Of course she sang for me. "Mama at Forty-One" again, because Camila has one hit and she is touring it relentlessly. She sang it on the coffee table with the Bluetooth microphone at maximum volume, and the neighbors probably think we run a concert venue, and I don't care. My daughter sings for me. My daughter sings for Rosa through me. My daughter is the voice that Rosa's hands couldn't make — the sound that completes the silence. Let her sing. Let the neighbors hear. Let everyone hear.

I made enchiladas suizas for the family dinner — green sauce, chicken, crema, the Gutierrez Mother's Day dinner that has become tradition not because I chose it but because I made it one year and the children asked for it the next year and the asking became the tradition and the tradition became the history. That is how traditions are born — not from intention but from repetition, not from planning but from love made habitual, and habitual love is the strongest kind.

So here it is — the enchiladas suizas that started as one dinner and became everything. The green sauce, the chicken, the crema pooling at the edges of the dish. I make them every Mother’s Day now because Luis Jr. and Camila and Sofia asked for them the second year, and the asking became the tradition, and the tradition became the history. Rosa never tasted these, but her hands are in every tortilla I roll, and her voice is in the kitchen whether I hear the midnight call or not. This recipe is the constant.

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Cook Time: 35 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 5 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 1/2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 pound tomatillos, husked and rinsed
2 poblano peppers
2 jalapeño peppers
4 cloves garlic, unpeeled
1/2 cup fresh cilantro, packed
1/2 cup Mexican crema (or sour cream)
1/2 cup chicken broth
1 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
12 corn tortillas
2 cups shredded Monterey Jack cheese, divided
1/2 cup crumbled queso fresco
Vegetable oil for softening tortillas
Sliced radishes, extra crema, and cilantro for garnish

Instructions

Poach the chicken. Place chicken breasts in a pot, cover with salted water, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 18–20 minutes until cooked through. Remove, let cool slightly, then shred with two forks. Set aside.
Roast the vegetables. Set oven broiler to high. Place tomatillos, poblanos, jalapeños, and garlic cloves on a sheet pan. Broil 4–5 minutes per side until charred and softened, about 10 minutes total. Remove stems and seeds from peppers and peel the garlic.
Make the green sauce. Add roasted tomatillos, peppers, garlic, cilantro, crema, chicken broth, salt, and cumin to a blender. Blend until smooth. Taste and adjust salt. The sauce should be creamy and slightly tangy.
Preheat the oven. Set oven to 375°F. Spread 1/2 cup of green sauce across the bottom of a 9x13 inch baking dish.
Soften the tortillas. Heat a thin layer of oil in a skillet over medium heat. Briefly fry each tortilla for about 5 seconds per side until pliable. Drain on paper towels.
Fill and roll. Place a handful of shredded chicken and a tablespoon of Monterey Jack cheese down the center of each tortilla. Roll tightly and place seam-side down in the baking dish.
Add sauce and cheese. Pour the remaining green sauce evenly over the rolled enchiladas. Top with the rest of the shredded Monterey Jack cheese.
Bake. Cover the dish with foil and bake for 20 minutes. Remove foil and bake an additional 10–15 minutes until the cheese is melted and bubbling and the edges are golden.
Finish and serve. Let rest 5 minutes. Top with crumbled queso fresco, a drizzle of crema, sliced radishes, and fresh cilantro. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Enchiladas Suizas — The Mother’s Day Tradition Born From Love Made Habitual