D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
July
2008
Continental Divide
Page: 2You might even say that "salsa" means something different in New Mexico. It doesn't come out of an "Old El Paso" jar, for one thing. Often we'll sample a fiery, flavorful New Mexican salsa and think how friends and family in South Dakota would react — screaming in agony, racing to shove their open mouths under the water faucet, trying to rip their blazing tongues out of their heads. Then we smile and dunk another tortilla chip. (Yes, we've also learned that "tortilla chips" do not have to come out of a plastic bag labeled "Tostitos.")
I already knew what a "tomatillo" is from my experiments with Mexican cuisine. But it's nonetheless gratifying to be able to find these tart little green tomato-looking fruits (actually, closer to the gooseberry botanically), wrapped in their pale green, crinkly, papery husks, in the grocery store alongside more mundane fare like celery.
Oddly, however, the grocery checkout clerks don't always recognize "tomatillos" when I unload my cart. Sometimes they'll even ask me what these green things are, or how I prepare them. I'm delighted to answer, of course, reveling in my mastery of at least one piece of the local lingo.
But I try not to show off and go overboard. Saying, "They're 'tomatillos,' and I use them to make 'salsa' that I serve during 'monsoon season' — you know, when the rain drives the 'javelinas' out of the 'arroyos,'" just gets you stared at in the grocery checkout line. Trust me.
To recover from that embarrassment and quickly change the subject, I've learned to add, "I also want to buy a bag of 'ice.' Not the sidewalk kind — the frozen-margarita kind."
David A. Fryxell practices speaking "New Mexican" as editor of Desert Exposure.