Salsa verde has more than one guise. In Italy it is a cold rustic sauce vaguely resembling a pesto of sorts but very light, fresh and tangy. Generally it features parsley, capers, onion, garlic, anchovies, vinegar, olive oil and lemon, but may also contain a bit of crumbled white bread, pickles, mustard and other green herbs. It's an opportunity for you to experiment a bit and make it as you like. This is most definitely not the salsa verde you would find in a Mexican restaurant. That one contains tomatillos and chiles and is a whole other conversation; or post, as the case may be. Nor is it quite the same as Argentina's famed chimichurri, which is missing the umami wallop of anchovy. Incidentally, if you still think you don't like anchovies and you leave them out of this sauce, you will be depriving yourself of a great taste sensation. I understand how you might be turned off by the little oily fillets with their hairy-looking bones and fishy aroma, but once they become part of something else—a Caesar dressing, say, or this sauce—they lose their identity and simply impart a rich depth of flavor that is like nothing else. Not to mention they're really good for you. So, salsa verde: the perfect summer sauce to slather on everything grilled, from fish and shrimp to chicken and steak. My other favorite way to eat it? As a dip for garden-fresh raw or lightly blanched vegetables.
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It’s hot and rainy here in Indonesia, and so far I haven’t managed to do more than catch up on sleep and wander around the hotel. Any hopes I had of going sight-seeing with G were dashed the moment I clapped eyes on his leg: scarily mottled and swollen, his toes like little sausages. Not to mention the 8” incision through which they inserted two titanium plates and seven screws. I’ll venture out into the city on my own eventually but for today, the 5th of May, I'm content to do a little armchair traveling to another part of the globe: Mexico. It’s Cinco de Mayo, not Mexican Independence Day as so many seem to believe (that’s September 6th), but a date observed in the United States as a celebration of Mexican heritage and pride, and in one part of Mexico as a commemoration of the army’s unlikely 1862 victory over French forces at the Battle of Puebla. If you lack the time or inclination to make something like my mother’s chile relleno casserole or my green chicken enchiladas, but still want to skew south of the border, maybe you’ll try one of these salsa recipes from Saveur magazine. (This month's issue is devoted to Mexican cuisine.) Salsa simply means “sauce,” and variations extend well past the fresh-tomato-onion-chile-cilantro pico de gallo we all know (and love) so well. They’re quick and easy to throw together, pack a huge punch of flavor and are endlessly versatile. Beyond scooping them up with tortilla chips, you can serve them with grilled chicken or fish, stir them into scrambled eggs, spoon them into quesadillas, or whip them into mayonnaise to slather on fresh seafood or a steak sandwich.
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The last of the tomatillos came off the vine this week. You know they're ripe when the papery husk grows tight. I love how these are tinged with lavender. They're a different kind than the smaller, all-green ones we harvested last year, though they have the same vegetal yet citrusy flavor. I whipped up a large batch of sauce—a slight variation on my usual recipe—some of which I'll use for enchiladas, and the rest will be frozen. The light, tangy sauce is chunky with bits of onion and pepitas (green pumpkin seeds) and is beautifully spiced with jalapeño, garlic, cumin and coriander.

A tomato by any other name...My friend Nina told me that she dubbed my delectable Spicy Tomato Jam (which I can't recommend highly enough as a way to use some of the many tomatoes flooding your farmers market at this very moment) Love Apple Jam and gave jars of it away as the favor at her wedding. Genius! Tomatoes were probably given this lightly erotic moniker due to their alleged aphrodisiac qualities. We all know how lusty those Italians are, right? At any rate, if you're not making jam with your love apples, you're undoubtedly dabbling in sauce. ("Gravy," if you're Italian-American, or have watched too many Sopranos episodes.) We have several divine varieties of heirloom tomatoes that G brings in by the armload every day and I've been making batches of sauce and freezing them—in glass jars, in ziploc bags—to squirrel away for the winter months. Can you just imagine eating spaghetti with sauce made from your own tomatoes in the middle of January?
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You can really connect with your inner cave woman when using a mortar and pestle. Or maybe it will take you back to Baba Yaga, that terrifying witch of childhood fables who flew around in a mortar, using her pestle as a rudder. There's something very primal about them, although you can see that the one I have, above, is pretty civilized. I also have a deeper one made of something very hard (cement?) that I use for making papaya salad Thai-style, and a small wooden one I use for crushing herbs. Real pesto aficionados always rely on a mortar and pestle.
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