Mango Avocado Salsa

Late February. The week Hartford gets its second wind of winter — a six-inch snowstorm on Tuesday, a brief warm snap on Friday that melted the sidewalks into ice, a lecture from the weatherman about "the coldest February stretch since 2015." I ignored the weatherman. Weather in Hartford is personal and I have been feuding with it since 1988 and no meteorologist is going to change my relationship with it.

I made sancocho Sunday. A big pot. Ten-quart stockpot. Short ribs, chicken thighs, pork shoulder chunks, plantains, yuca, yautía, calabaza, sweet potato, corn, sofrito, achiote, cilantro. The three-hour stew. The winter feast. I made it because Miguel Jr. and Jenny and the kids were coming — their first Sunday dinner since Mateo was born — and because Mateo at one month old is not yet a Sunday dinner participant but Lucas and Isabella are, and Lucas specifically had been asking Jenny for a week when he was going to see Abuela again.

Miguel Jr. arrived with the baby in the carrier, Jenny looking five years older than she had looked at Thanksgiving, Lucas in his Spider-Man sweatshirt, Isabella in a tutu (she is in a tutu phase; it will last four to fourteen months, per pediatrician estimates). Mateo slept through dinner in the bassinet I keep in the hallway for when babies visit. Lucas ate sancocho like it was his native food. He finished his bowl and asked for more and then ate half of Isabella's, because Isabella was in her tutu phase and her I-do-not-eat-things-that-touch-each-other phase simultaneously.

Mami came too. She was not supposed to — the weather was bad and the walk from the car to the front steps was icy — but Eduardo installed a temporary railing on the steps Tuesday specifically because Mami falling worried him, and he picked her up and she made it inside and she sat next to Mateo's bassinet with her hand lightly on the carrier frame and she watched him sleep for twenty minutes before she ate. Then she ate. Sancocho. Two bowls. She said, "The corn is right." She has never complimented my sancocho corn before. Something about this week was right.

Jenny took home two containers. Miguel Jr. loaded the car. The kids kissed Mami goodbye. Lucas told Mami, "Next time I will help cook." Mami nodded with real solemnity and said, "I will expect it." He was delighted.

After they left Eduardo and I cleaned up. The house was quiet again. I sat at the kitchen table with the last bowl of sancocho and I thought about how thirty years ago I was doing this on Sunday with my own young kids, and now Miguel Jr. is the parent loading the car with leftovers, and Mateo in the carrier will be someone else's grown son someday. The chain, again. Always the chain. Wepa.

The sancocho is the main event — it always is — but I have been putting this mango avocado salsa on the counter since my kids were Lucas’s age, because there is always someone who wants something cold and bright next to something hot and heavy, and also because Isabella at four years old will not eat things that touch each other in a bowl but will absolutely eat this off a chip while wearing a tutu. It is the easiest thing on the Sunday table and the first thing to disappear. I thought of it this week as the right small recipe to share alongside the big one, because not every part of feeding people has to take three hours.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 ripe mangoes, peeled and diced small
2 ripe avocados, pitted, peeled, and diced
1/2 red onion, finely diced
1 jalapeño, seeded and minced
1/2 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
Juice of 2 limes
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

Prep the fruit. Peel and dice the mangoes into roughly 1/2-inch cubes. Pit, peel, and dice the avocados to the same size. Add both to a medium mixing bowl.
Add the aromatics. Add the finely diced red onion and minced jalapeño to the bowl. If you prefer less heat, remove all seeds and ribs from the jalapeño before mincing.
Season and dress. Squeeze the lime juice over the mixture. Add the chopped cilantro, salt, and black pepper. Gently fold everything together with a large spoon, taking care not to mash the avocado.
Taste and adjust. Taste for salt and lime. The mango’s sweetness will vary — if yours is very sweet, an extra squeeze of lime balances it. If it is tart, a small pinch of sugar helps.
Serve promptly. This salsa is best served within 30 minutes of making it, before the avocado oxidizes. If making slightly ahead, press a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the surface and refrigerate until ready.

Nutrition (per serving)

Mango Avocado Salsa — The Something Sweet We Always Need at the Table