In the late summer of 2006 I threw all caution to the wind, packed up all my belongings, and decamped from a lifetime in New York to spend a year renovating an old mining bungalow in a scrappy little city called Cottonwood, in the heart Arizona’s Verde Valley.
To say that I experienced culture shock would be a little bit of an understatement.
I wasn’t arriving at this adventure totally unprepared — I’d visited Arizona a handful of times before. Dan’s folks live there, in a low-lying, white-painted house, on the mission-styled campus of a small private high school dropped in the middle of a stark and somehow bristlingly lush landscape. Spending a week or so vacationing with the in-laws was a yearly treat — in Arizona, the dry heat and blazing sun provided a nice contrast to whatever humidity or frigidity we’d escaped in New York. Out there, the horizon seemed to stretch on for miles, punctuated by weird, mitten-shaped rock formations, upon which you’d often see intrepid hikers and rock climbers scrambling. Sunsets spread over the sky in pinkish-blue washes, and the nights were black and star-studded in the truest sense of the word.
But even now, over a century after its “discovery” by white settlers, there remains a whiff of dusty frontier spirit, a sort of antagonistic, unshaven individualism that seemed at odds with the polite live-and-let-live selective ignorance of New York that I’d grown so used to. Living in New York, everyone is packed in so tight you have no choice but to respectfully accede to — or at least accept — the bizarre goings-on in the apartment next door, the street below, or the seat next to you on the subway. In Arizona, you never really took the chance to get too close to anyone — literally and figuratively — lest you get picked off by their shotgun-toting granny or the pack of rabid dogs they keep chained to the rickety fence post in their front yard.
So the culture of rural Arizona was not exactly welcoming. The frigid aisles of the local Mexican grocery store, however, were another story entirely. They seemed to be celebrating my arrival, thanking me, almost, with mountainous piles of 25-cent avocados, fragrant, juicy mangoes, and a dizzying rainbow of hot chiles, the likes of which I had never seen before. Papayas glistened luridly on a bed of ice, tequilas were arranged face-out in three-tiered shelving units, and enormous packages of spices hung aromatically in a long aisle that led directly to a cold case piled high with Mexican cheeses and stacks of dumbfoundingly inexpensive handmade tortillas. If I had been able to figure out a way to teleport myself from home to the grocery store without having to get in the truck and drive there, or interact with anyone else on the way, I might have stayed in Arizona forever.
I’ll leave that dream for the world’s brilliant scientific minds to ponder, and I’ll leave you, dear reader, with this recipe for salsa verde, a simple Mexican green sauce (literally) made up of tomatillos, onion, and herbs. It comes together quickly, and keeps well for a few days, especially if you use fresh, young onions. I tasted my first tomatillo in Arizona, and was delighted to find that our CSA here in New England grows them every year. I’ll never find 25-cent avocados anywhere within a 1000-mile radius, but at least I have this.
Fresh Tomatillo Salsa
Adapted from Authentic Mexican by Rick Bayless
This sauce tastes great with some roasted corn, cut from the cob, tossed in. For a slightly different flavor, boil the tomatillos in salted water until just tender, then proceed with the recipe.
8 oz. (5 or 6 medium) fresh tomatillos, husked, washed, and quartered
1 jalepeño chile, stemmed and halved (deseeded if you like it less spicy)
5 or 6 springs cilantro, roughly chopped
1 small onion, chopped
1/2 small onion, chopped
1/2 tsp. salt
Place the tomatillos in a blender or food processor. Add the chile, cilantro, onion, and a little bit of water. Blend or process into a smooth puree. Scrape the puree into a dish, then season with salt. Let the sauce stand for a half-hour so the flavors blend.
Makes about 1 1/2 c.