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Poblano Pesto — When the Garden Justifies Itself

Summer peak. The garden is drowning me in produce. Tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, peppers, beans. Made twelve more quarts of sauce. Canned salsa. Made pickled jalapenos from the plant Connie said I didn't need, and the pickled jalapenos on nachos Tuesday night proved that I did need it and the plant was justified and my gardening instincts are sound. Told Connie. She said congratulations on being right about a pepper. I said thank you, I accept the award.

Clay took Sarah to meet Betty. Drove to Evarts on Saturday, the two of them. He called me from the car on the way back and said it went well. I said what did Betty think. He said Betty asked Sarah about her people, which is what Betty asks everyone — where are your people from, who are your people, the Appalachian census that determines whether you belong or don't. Sarah's people are from Whitesburg. Betty knows Whitesburg. Betty said Whitesburg has good people. That is Betty's approval. That is the only approval that matters in this family, the approval of an eighty-five-year-old woman in a company house in Evarts who measures people by their geography and their people and their willingness to eat soup beans, and Sarah ate two bowls.

After the jalapeno plant vindicated me completely, I found myself looking at the rest of the garden’s peppers with a whole new respect — or maybe just a whole new appetite. The poblanos had been piling up the same way everything else had, and I wasn’t about to let them sit there after the week I’d just had. This pesto came together fast, it used what I had, and it tasted like proof that a garden will reward you if you just let it do what it wants to do.

Poblano Pesto

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 20 min | Servings: 8 (about 1 cup)

Ingredients

  • 3 poblano peppers
  • 1 cup fresh cilantro leaves, packed
  • 1/4 cup fresh basil leaves
  • 3 cloves garlic
  • 1/4 cup pepitas (roasted pumpkin seeds)
  • 1/3 cup olive oil, plus more as needed
  • 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
  • 1/4 cup cotija cheese, crumbled (or Parmesan)
  • 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
  • 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
  • Pinch of red pepper flakes (optional)

Instructions

  1. Char the poblanos. Place poblano peppers directly over a gas flame or under the broiler, turning occasionally, until the skin is blackened and blistered on all sides, about 8—10 minutes total.
  2. Steam and peel. Transfer the charred peppers to a bowl, cover tightly with plastic wrap or a plate, and let steam for 10 minutes. Once cooled, peel off the skin, remove the stem and seeds, and roughly chop the flesh.
  3. Toast the pepitas. In a dry skillet over medium heat, toast the pepitas, stirring frequently, until they just begin to pop and turn golden, about 3 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool.
  4. Blend the base. In a food processor, combine the roasted poblano flesh, garlic, toasted pepitas, cilantro, and basil. Pulse 6—8 times until roughly chopped.
  5. Add oil and cheese. With the processor running, stream in the olive oil until the mixture reaches your preferred consistency — slightly chunky or fully smooth. Add the cotija, lime juice, salt, and black pepper. Pulse to combine.
  6. Taste and adjust. Taste for seasoning. Add more lime juice, salt, or a pinch of red pepper flakes as needed. If the pesto is too thick, add olive oil one tablespoon at a time.
  7. Serve or store. Use immediately as a pasta sauce, spread on toast, or dollop over grilled chicken. Store covered in the refrigerator up to 5 days; press plastic wrap directly onto the surface to prevent browning.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 118 | Protein: 2g | Fat: 11g | Carbs: 4g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 162mg

Craig Hensley
About the cook who shared this
Craig Hensley
Week 458 of Craig’s 30-year story · Lexington, Kentucky
Craig is a retired coal miner from Harlan County, Kentucky — a man who spent twenty years underground and seventeen hours trapped in a collapsed tunnel before he was twenty-four. He moved his family to Lexington when the mine closed, learned to cook his mama Betty's Appalachian recipes from memory because she never wrote them down, and now he's trying to get them on paper before they're lost. He says "reckon" and "fixing to" and means both. His bourbon-glazed ribs are, according to his wife Connie, "acceptable" — which is the highest praise she gives.

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