Peanut Chipotle Salsa

The phone did not ring this week with the news I've been waiting for, and I am trying to be patient about it, but patience has never been my gift. My gift is cornbread. Patience belongs to people who have not spent their whole lives standing over a stove where timing is everything and a minute too long means the difference between dinner and charcoal.

Jasmine is due any day now. Earl Jr. calls every evening with the same report — she's fine, she's tired, the baby is taking her time. I said, "That baby will come when she's ready, and not a minute before, because that is how women in this family operate." Earl Jr. laughed. He knows I'm right. I was two weeks late with every one of mine except Michael, who came early because Michael did everything on his own schedule, even being born.

October has finally arrived in a way you can feel. The mornings are cool enough for a sweater, and the light through the kitchen window at Denise's house hits the counter at a different angle now, lower and more golden, like the sun is leaning in to get a better look at what I'm cooking. I love October light. It makes everything in the kitchen look like a painting — the jar of wooden spoons, the flour canister, Hattie Pearl's skillet hanging on its hook. Earl used to say October was God's apology for August. He was right about that.

Denise and I put up pepper jelly this week. The peppers from Robert's garden came in fierce this year — habaneros hot enough to make your eyes water just from cutting them, and sweet red bells fat as a fist. We cooked them down with sugar and vinegar until the kitchen smelled like summer's last argument, and we poured the jelly into jars and sealed them and lined them up on the counter like soldiers. Twelve jars. Some for us, some for church, two going to Atlanta with Earl Jr. when he comes for Thanksgiving, and one for Kayla because Devon puts pepper jelly on everything and goes through a jar a month.

I ate pepper jelly on cream cheese with crackers for supper Monday night and watched the sky go purple over the backyard. Nine great-grandchildren coming. The ninth one taking her sweet time. I can wait. I have pepper jelly and October light and a phone that will ring when it's ready.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The small First African Baptist Church congregation continues to be the small social-and-spiritual home. The small Wednesday-night-prayer-meeting. The small Sunday-morning-service. The small choir Dorothy has sung in for thirty-two years. The small church-cookouts where Dorothy’s small contributions are the small expected-presence.

Earl passed in 2019 on Valentine’s Day. The small widow-life is in its small seventh year now. The small house in the small Thunderbolt-neighborhood of Savannah near the marsh continues to be the small Dorothy-residence. The small house is the small place Earl maintained and where Earl built the small raised-bed-garden. The small kitchen is the small heart of the small house.

The small thirty-five years at the small Hodge Elementary School cafeteria are the small career-spine of Dorothy’s life. The small lunch-lady role had been the small everyday-presence for the small generation of Savannah kids. The small retirement in 2020 had been the small adjustment-period after the small thirty-five-year-tenure. The small Sunday-spread-at-the-Thunderbolt-house for the small grandkids is the small post-retirement-rhythm.

Twelve jars of pepper jelly lined up on the counter is a beautiful thing, but not everybody has a full canning afternoon in them — and Devon goes through a jar a month, so something has to bridge the gap. This Peanut Chipotle Salsa carries that same spirit: hot peppers, deep smoky heat, and a little something unexpected that makes people ask what’s in it. I’d put it on cream cheese with crackers and call it a perfectly good supper while waiting on a phone to ring.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 8 (about 2 cups)

Ingredients

1 can (14.5 oz) fire-roasted diced tomatoes, drained
2 chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, plus 1 tablespoon adobo sauce
1/4 cup natural creamy peanut butter
2 cloves garlic, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice (about 1 lime)
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/4 cup fresh cilantro leaves (optional)
2–3 tablespoons water, to thin as needed

Instructions

Combine. Add the drained fire-roasted tomatoes, chipotle peppers, adobo sauce, peanut butter, garlic, lime juice, cumin, smoked paprika, and salt to a blender or food processor.
Blend. Process until smooth, about 45–60 seconds. Scrape down the sides as needed. Add cilantro if using and pulse 2–3 times to incorporate without fully blending.
Adjust consistency. With the blender running on low, add water one tablespoon at a time until the salsa reaches a pourable, dip-ready consistency.
Taste and season. Taste and adjust salt, lime juice, or chipotle to your heat preference. For more smoke and heat, add a third chipotle pepper.
Serve or store. Transfer to a jar or airtight container. Serve immediately alongside crackers and cream cheese, tortilla chips, or grilled meat. Store refrigerated for up to 10 days.

Nutrition (per serving)

Peanut Chipotle Salsa — When the Peppers Come In Fierce and the Waiting Is All You Can Do