The Dinner Files

My son helped me make these. They were, in fact, his idea. When asked if there was anything that sounded really good for dinner, he said “chicken enchiladas,” which was a new one because he usually wants, or rather begs for, chicken tacos. He also specified that he would like to help make the enchiladas, which was also odd because he usually asks, or rather insists, that those chicken tacos come from El Metate. It wasn’t completely out of character, though, because he’s been really into helping in the kitchen recently. He’s also been really into telling me that I am the best mom in the whole world. It is very sweet and charming, but it does loose some of its impact after the 20th iteration in a single morning. It becomes even less meaningful when I hear him repeating, chant-like, the phrase “Mama is the best mama in the whole world” to himself as he gets ready for school. It’s an odd mantra. It seems more like he is trying to make it so than proclaiming a deep truth.

It’s also a phrase that I have a bit of baggage around. You see when I was maybe 11 or almost 11 I saved up my allowance, walked up to the drugstore, and picked out a beautiful cut glass “crystal” votive with a blue candle in it for my mom for mothers day. I then wrapped it carefully, tied a ribbon around it, and made a card. My memory gets fuzzy here, but I’m pretty sure I drew a big rainbow on the card with out-sized bubble-like flowers growing on a green hill.

On that Sunday morning I asked my brother – two years younger – what he had gotten mom for mothers day. Nothing. He had forgotten. So he went downstairs, found a rough piece of scrap lumber, used enamel paint leftover from the model car my dad and I decorated for Indian Princesses, and painted “Your the best mommy” (sic) on the wood. This he presented, still wet, to my mom.

She fell for it. She also fell all over him thanking him for it. She then displayed that aesthetic monstrosity in their house for the next 20 years. A redwood and royal blue thorn in my side. The votive and candle which were so clearly the superior gift in every way to my 11-year-old eyes were ignored to my 11-year-old perceptions in favor of the crappy, stupid gift from her favorite child.

Of course, my 40-year-old self completely understands that perhaps the affectionate utterances and declarations of love for my mom were fewer and further between from her rambunctious, Star Wars-obsessed son than they were from her older daughter. I’m also pretty sure my memory of my gift being totally ignored isn’t accurate at all. Yet the very phrase “you’re the best mommy” rings, at a certain level, hollow to me. Perhaps it’s because as much as my son may think that – and that is great and fabulous in every way – I, the adult, know that it just really isn’t even remotely true. Don’t get me wrong, I have my parental strengths and high points. I bring a lot to this party. But I’m not the best. Not even close. The best is more patient and less distracted, at the very least. As a parent I know my own failings all too well. I need to believe that there are better – not just different but straight-up better – versions out there. Of course, I’m not telling him that. He’ll figure it out soon enough and in all likelihood spend the rest of my life reminding me of that very fact. For now I try to push that redwood slab out of my mind along with all my maternal weak spots, and feel the unconditional adoration that a 7 year-old can have for their mother. It is fleeting and I’m going to want to remember its sweetness.

So as he fawns all over me, we rolled up these enchiladas: The filling was plain cooked and shredded chicken meat. You could bake some breasts or pull meat off a rotisserie chicken from the store. I poached a whole chicken, pulled the meat off, and then used the carcass to make a pot of stock, but I’m funny like that. So fill some corn tortillas (we used these “Mi Abuelita” ones they sell around these parts that have some wheat gluten in them and thus are soft and don’t break when you roll them; pure corn tortillas need to be soften with a dip in sauce or hot oil before you fill and roll them) with chicken, roll them up and put them in a lightly oiled baking pan. Pour red enchilada sauce on them (many many jarred versions are delightful but you can make your own with this recipe if you were so inclined), cover the pan with foil and bake in a hot oven (somewhere in the 375°F range) until toasty hot all the way through. Serve with crumbled cotija cheese, sliced red onion or green onion, and chopped cilantro on top. You could go old-school and cover the sauced enchiladas with a freight load of Monterey jack cheese and bake them uncovered until the cheese melted and bubbled and those would also be very delicious. That version, however, isn’t so much in sync with my current interest in maintaining some semblance of what was once a girlish figure. And honestly, this less-cheesed version was, though I say it myself, delicious in a different and perhaps even better way. I’m not saying they’re the best enchiladas in the whole world, but I sure like them a lot.

Isn’t that a great name for a restaurant? It lets you know you do not need a tie, for example. We waited a lllooonnnnnngggg time last night to eat our dinner there. While we waited I downed one of the best margaritas I’ve had in a long time along with bright and spicy salsa and smooth and flavorful guacamole, which all really hit the spot after a day of travel – first flying to Denver for the third time in 8 days (hello Concourse B!), then on to Albuquerque, then the drive up to Santa Fe. Why are we here? It’s spring break. We’ve never been. And we’re eventually going to make our way down to Marfa, Texas to see art and and lots of space and sky. Carlsbad Caverns, Roswell, and plenty of more space will occupy us on the way. And, of course, I’m hoping to eat plenty of chile-laced delights.

The Shed. It came highly recommended by locals. It did not disappoint. The best thing was some green chile stew, a cup of which my dashing husband and I shared to start. My red chile smothered enchiladas with a side of posole were pleasantly bitter from the chiles, which made the bits of onion taste sweet, and I ate the whole plate full of them, which is something I don’t usually do at restaurants.

Wow. That was easier than I thought it would be. Yes, the enchiladas, I guess, but really the presidential election. The polls closed, the race was called, one candidate conceeded, another candidate accepted, and it seems like everyone I know has spent the day straddling joy and disbelief.

We listened and watched returns and drank wine and sat around smiling and gorged a bit on these enchiladas. Considering they were made entirely with stuff I had sitting around the house… well, you wouldn’t guess that by how they taste.

Mushroom potato chile enchiladas

1 oz. dried wild mushrooms

1/2 lb. mushrooms, stems finely chopped and caps sliced

1/2 pound mild green chiles, roasted, peeled, and chopped

1 lb. potatoes, scrubbed cleaned and cut into 1/4-inch dice

9 corn tortillas

Vegetable oil

Salt

1 recipe Enchilada sauce (below)

About 8 oz. queso fresco

Soak dried mushrooms in 1 cup boiling water for about half and hour. Lift them out and chop them up. Reserve the soaking liquid. In a large frying pan over high heat drizzle a bit of oil and cook the fresh and dried mushrooms, stirring as much as you care to, until they’ve released all their liquid and that liquid is mostly evaporated. Add potatoes and chiles and about 1/2 tsp. salt and stir it all up. Pour in reserved mushroom-soaking liquid, cover, reduce heat to simmer, and cook until potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat.

Preheat oven to 375. In a frying pan over medium heat heat about 1/4 inch of oil. Fry tortillas just to soften them, about 10 seconds each. Lay a softened tortilla flat, spread about 1/9 of the vegetable mixture down the center, roll it up and place in a large oiled baking pan. Repeat with remaining tortillas and filling. 

Pour sauce over enchiladas. Sprinkle with grated cheese and bake until cheese is melted and bubbling and enchiladas are heated through, about 20 minutes.

Enchilada Sauce

Remove stems and seeds from 2 oz. each dried pasilla negro chiles and dried ancho chiles in 2 cups boiling water (or more to cover) for about half an hour. Lift chiles out of water (reserve liquid) and put in a blender. Add 1 can (about 14 oz.) canned tomatoes, 1/2 tsp. salt, and about 1/2 cup of the soaking liquid. Whirl until smooth and creamy. Add more soaking liquid to get a pourable sauce, if necessary. Taste and add more salt if you like.