Chilies just hatched
In Indiana we take pride in Hoosier
High School basketball, corn, soybeans, and something called the Indy 500.
In New Mexico, the state where my both sides of my family crossed the border into the United States in 1910, we take pride in chilis, green, red, and as hot as you can stand them.
My cousin Eva from New Mexico recently posted a picture of her mother on Facebook. Aunt Isobel is 90 years old, the last of my father’s siblings still alive, and she was busy preparing chilis. Chilis are broiled in New Mexico, the dry skin peeled away, chopped, then put away for future use.
Aunt Isobel was wearing medical gloves because I warn you even with gloves you shouldn’t touch for face for at least a week after you’re done preparing chilis. And these weren’t just any chilis. They were Hatch chilis.
Everyone grows great chilis in New Mexico but Hatch, a crossroads town in the middle of nowhere, claims they have the best, and who am I to argue?
We did a lot of traveling last year unaware that this would be nigh impossible in 2020. My wife Jennie and I, along with our granddaughter Natalia, stopped in Hatch, found a restaurant that was really just somebody’s house, and ate just about the best Mexican food I ever ate. Later, while my wife shopped for some pottery, I went into a little hole in the wall where no one spoke English and asked about buying powdered Hatch chili. I got red chili powder and green chili powder. The bags were labelled HOT!!! in all caps with plenty of exclamation points attached.
After I bought them I opened one of the bags, took a deep breath, and doubled over, coughing. Perfect.
Once we got home I triple-bagged the chili powder, then sealed them in air-tight plastic containers. Whenever Jennie goes out of town, like to visit her sister in California, or to spend a few days in Muncie with our grandson Jack, I use some of that powder to make what we call chili beans, what you probably call chili. I cook the pinto beans from scratch, add some frozen tomatoes from last year’s garden, and chili powder. Who needs meat?
That’s dinner until Jennie comes back. My eyes water. My ears burn. My pores are opened wide and so are my sinuses. I don’t know if there’s Hatch chili in heaven, but if there isn’t, I’m not sure why they’d call it heaven.
Fast forward to 2020. Neither Jennie nor I have taken any trips by ourselves, which is unusual for our marriage. One reason we’ve stayed together forty-five years is we give each other lots of space. Well, despite the Pandemic, which has limited our travel, we’re still married, but I have had no occasion since February to make Hatch chili beans.
Keep in mind that Jennie has been a Ramirez more than twice as long as she was a Daves, so she can eat pretty hot Mexican food herself. However, I like being married so there’s no reason to use Hatch chili while she’s around. And as far as Pandemic related complaints this one is pretty mild. The complaint, not the chili.
I love corn, high school basketball, and Indiana. But I promise you, once the Pandemic finally ends and we get back to the new normal I’m taking a road trip to New Mexico. We’ll stop to see my Aunt Isobel, who will feed us homemade tortillas, homemade tamales, and plenty of Hatch chilis.