Green Chile Shredded Pork

Three hundred weeks since the blog began. Almost six years since the floor. I marked it privately, in Angela's journal, with the handwriting of a woman whose hands have held IVs and spatulas and the edges of hospital beds and the small fists of nieces and nephews and the sides of Tupperware containers full of adobo. Three hundred weeks. The number is large and the weeks were small. Each one: cook something. Write something. Show up for a shift. Call your mother. Eat at the table. Don't sit on the floor. Three hundred repetitions of the same instructions. The instructions became a life.

Angela is due in two weeks. The baby preparations are complete — the freezer full of meals (my contribution: adobo, sinigang, mechado, caldereta, tinola), the nursery ready (James's contribution: crib assembled with engineering precision and verified three times), the Lourdes blanket in the crib (yellow, knitted, soft, the love made physical in yarn). Everything is ready. The baby is not yet here. The not-yet is the hardest part — the waiting that has a date but not a time, the knowing-when without the knowing-exactly-when, the particular suspense of impending birth that is different from all other suspenses because the ending is known (baby arrives) and the beginning is unknown (when?).

I made Lourdes's chicken adobo. The same recipe. The same garlic. The same vinegar. Week three hundred of this recipe. Three hundred versions of the same act. The act is not repetition. The act is practice. The practice is the life. The adobo is the same. I am not. The recipe held me still while I did the changing. Three hundred weeks of holding. The holding works.

The adobo is Lourdes’s, and I will always make Lourdes’s adobo — but this week, in the spirit of the freezer full of meals I packed for Angela, I’m sharing another slow-cooked, deeply flavored recipe that carries the same quiet logic: you put the ingredients together, you let time do the work, and something nourishing comes out the other side. Green chile shredded pork is the recipe I turn to when I need to feel useful with my hands and feed people I love without standing over the stove for hours. It is, like all good braised things, a practice in patience — and patience, these three hundred weeks have taught me, is always worth it.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 8 hours | Total Time: 8 hours 15 minutes | Servings: 8

Ingredients

3 1/2 lbs boneless pork shoulder, trimmed of excess fat
2 cans (4 oz each) diced green chiles
1 cup low-sodium chicken broth
1 medium yellow onion, diced
5 cloves garlic, minced
1 1/2 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp smoked paprika
1 1/2 tsp kosher salt
1/2 tsp black pepper
1 tbsp olive oil
Juice of 1 lime

Instructions

Season the pork. Pat the pork shoulder dry with paper towels. Rub all sides with cumin, oregano, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper. Let sit at room temperature for 10 minutes while you prepare the other ingredients.
Sear for flavor. Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Sear the pork on all sides until a deep golden crust forms, about 3 to 4 minutes per side. This step builds the savory base of the dish — don’t skip it.
Build the braise. Place diced onion and garlic in the bottom of a slow cooker. Nestle the seared pork shoulder on top. Pour both cans of green chiles and the chicken broth over the pork.
Cook low and slow. Cover and cook on LOW for 8 hours, or on HIGH for 4 to 5 hours, until the pork is completely tender and pulls apart easily with a fork.
Shred and finish. Transfer the pork to a cutting board and shred with two forks, discarding any large pieces of fat. Return the shredded pork to the slow cooker and stir to combine with the braising liquid. Squeeze lime juice over the top and stir once more.
Serve or store. Serve over rice, in tortillas, or with warm flatbread. To freeze: cool completely, portion into airtight containers, and freeze for up to 3 months. Reheat gently on the stovetop with a splash of broth.

Nutrition (per serving)

Green Chile Shredded Pork — The Slow Cook That Holds You Still