the jarred stuff fooled me for years. thick, gloopy, sour like it had been hiding in the back of the fridge even though it came straight from the store shelf. that was “salsa” to me growing up. dip a chip, shrug, move on.
then one day — Mexico City, too hot, too loud, me sweating through my shirt — a señora slapped a tortilla into my hand, spooned on salsa verde so fresh it looked electric. I bit in. boom. the sky cracked open. tacos weren’t tacos anymore. they were vehicles. salsa was the actual story.
since then, I can’t eat without it.
making salsa at home is chaos. first attempt, I boiled everything. tomatoes, tomatillos, chilies. dumped into blender, pressed the button, and got a sad soup that tasted like dishwater. second time, I roasted stuff. forgot foil. juices glued themselves to the pan like caramel cement. smoke alarm shrieked. neighbor pounded on the wall. I flapped a towel around like an idiot while my dog howled like we were under attack.
third time, I blended too soon. chilies still hot. lid popped off. salsa everywhere. ceiling, cabinets, even the toaster. I was finding green flecks for weeks.
and yet I keep doing it.
the grocery store cashier knows me now. I always forget something. once it was garlic. another time I bought eight limes but no chilies. one time I came home with chocolate bars, chips, and a bottle of hot sauce… but zero tomatillos. walked straight back, hair wild, holding my basket like I’d lost a bet.
I traded half a jar of salsa once for a single garlic clove from my downstairs neighbor. honestly? fair trade.
the roulette of chilies will break you. jalapeños are liars. one’s gentle, the next makes you hiccup and question your existence. serranos, worse. I made a salsa once that had me clutching tortillas like tissues, eyes streaming. still ate the whole bowl.
and I rubbed my eye once. rookie mistake. shoved my face into yogurt while my roommate walked in. she froze, stared, and quietly left the room.
salsa creeps into everything I cook. eggs, rice, potatoes, pizza (don’t judge), plain bread when I’m broke. popcorn once, because it was the only snack I had. messy, but weirdly good.
there was a week in college where dinner was just tortillas and salsa roja. broke, stressed, and somehow the happiest I’d been in months.
my grandma’s molcajete still echoes in my head. stone grinding roasted chilies, that rhythmic scrape. she’d hum while she worked, hand me a tortilla straight from the comal, and smear it with salsa so hot it stung. when I tried to grind by hand, my arms gave up halfway. salsa came out lumpy, uneven. she tasted it, nodded, said “not bad.” I knew she was lying, but kindly.
the best salsas happen when you’re too tired to care. 2 a.m., fridge nearly empty, I spot tomatillos rolling around in the drawer, a lone jalapeño, half a lime. roast, blend, salt. sit on the floor with stale chips, eating like a raccoon. feels like luxury anyway.
I was going to finish this with something clever, like “salsa is connection” or whatever, but honestly, I just spilled salsa on my keyboard. dog circling the floor like a shark, waiting for me to drop more.
so yeah. salsa isn’t extra. it’s the mess. the chaos. the heartbeat. the part that makes the whole plate taste alive.
and now I need to find a paper towel.