Gremolata (Italian Parsley Condiment)

February. The worst month. Shorter than January but somehow longer, the way pain is shorter than dread but somehow worse. Hartford in February is punishment for sins I did not commit, but I accept the punishment because May is coming and May has flowers and warmth and the promise of Lucas first birthday, and the promise carries me through February the way sofrito carries a pot of beans — invisibly, essentially, without complaint.

I took my annual trip to Puerto Rico. Just me this year — Eduardo stayed home, Mami stayed home because Mami cannot travel and will not try. I flew to San Juan and drove to Bayamon and stayed with Marisol. The house in Hato Tejas still has the tarp. Still. February 2019 and the tarp from September 2017 is still there. I stood in front of the house and I looked at the blue plastic flapping in the wind and I thought about what Mami would say if she could see it. She would say, The house is still standing. The house has always been standing. The tarp is not the point. The standing is the point.

I walked the streets of Hato Tejas. The bakery is open — the pan de agua is still warm, still perfect. The market has culantro — I bought five bunches, more than I needed, because buying culantro in Bayamon is an act of faith, a declaration that I will return to my Hartford kitchen and make sofrito from this island soil and the sofrito will carry the island into my food and the food will carry the island to my family. Culantro is a vehicle. Culantro is a bridge. Culantro is the green thread between the island and the mainland.

I sat on Marisol porch and we drank cafe. She is seventy-seven, still in Bayamon, still on the island, the sister who never left. We talked about Mami. I told her about the fog. She went quiet. She said, Mami was always the sharpest one. The sharpest, mi amor. And the fog takes the sharp ones the same way it takes everyone else — slowly, piece by piece, like someone taking apart a clock, removing one gear at a time until the hands stop moving. I cried. Marisol held my hand. Two sisters on a porch in Bayamon, holding hands the way children hold hands when they cross the street, looking both ways for danger, seeing the fog approaching, holding on.

Came home to Hartford with my culantro and my heartache and my sister love and I made sofrito. The Bayamon culantro sofrito. The best sofrito. The one that carries the island. I put it in the freezer and labeled it BAYAMON and I stood in my kitchen and I was home, in both kitchens, the way I am always in both kitchens. Both. Always both.

The culantro I brought back from Bayamon went straight into the sofrito, labeled and frozen, done — but I kept thinking about what it means to build flavor from almost nothing, just green things and garlic and something bright, the way a condiment does not announce itself but carries everything else. Gremolata is not sofrito. It is Italian where sofrito is Puerto Rican, lemon where sofrito is culantro, a different island, a different kitchen. But it is the same idea: a handful of herbs and a sharp knife and the faith that the small things — the finishing things, the invisible things — are the ones that make the whole pot taste like home.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 cup fresh flat-leaf parsley, packed, stems removed
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon lemon zest (from about 1 large lemon)
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt, or to taste
1/8 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

Wash and dry the parsley. Rinse the flat-leaf parsley thoroughly under cold water and pat completely dry with a clean towel or spin in a salad spinner. Dry herbs chop more cleanly and the condiment will keep longer.
Chop the parsley. Gather the dried parsley leaves into a tight bundle and chop finely with a sharp knife. You want a rough mince — not a paste — so the texture stays bright and present.
Combine all ingredients. In a small bowl, stir together the chopped parsley, minced garlic, lemon zest, lemon juice, and olive oil until evenly mixed.
Season and taste. Add the kosher salt and black pepper, stir again, and taste. Adjust salt or lemon to your preference. The condiment should taste sharp and clean, with the garlic just behind the parsley.
Rest before serving. Let the gremolata sit for at least 5 minutes before using so the flavors come together. Use immediately for the brightest flavor, or refrigerate in an airtight container for up to 2 days.
Serve. Spoon over braised meats, roasted vegetables, soups, pasta, or grilled fish. A small spoonful at the finish of any slow-cooked dish will lift the whole pot.

Nutrition (per serving)

Gremolata (Italian Parsley Condiment) — The Green Thread Between Two Kitchens