Our mom had decided to teach us how to make homemade salsa. We said, OK.
Our husbands didn’t think it was such a good idea. If there was any opportunity to start a fight we’d take it. No-no-no, we said, this is going to be fun. And besides, the salsa will be delicious and everybody will benefit—what’s so bad about that? To which they said, really?
Mom was ready to start right away. For fucks sake, she said, you all can fuss about it later. Now, listen to me, send them out to the garage or to play video games. What’s that game, cornhole? You two are so easily manipulated.
Start with the essentials, she said. You need fresh, organic tomatoes whenever possible—there are cheaper canned varieties but trust me, nobody likes them especially men. Yes! You’d be surprised. First slice them nice and neat, like so, then dice or chop. But here’s the main thing. Oh, I wish your grandmother was alive, not that she’d give a rat’s ass—
But Mom, I said. Grandma never made salsa in her life. I didn’t say she was famous for keeping a dozen pearly shades of crusted Revlon nail polish and a fresh case of Coors Light in her fridge, least of all homemade salsa.
Forget it, she said sadly. But I must mention onions. NO PURPLE ONIONS. Look at your cousin, who breaks out in hives at the sight of one. I know someone has said that purple onions are good for your skin, but that person is an idiot. They’re going to make your salsa much too sweet.
Come here, she said, handing me a chopping knife that was made for a lefty and was slightly rusted on one side.
Listen to me. The main thing is this—when you make anything from scratch, you must have a clean slate to start from—and with that, she licked her forefinger and wiped an ominous-looking dark smudge from the side of the mixing bowl.
What kind of process is that? My sister asked. Is your dishwasher still broken?
The dishwasher? No-no, it’s fine to do this. She continued rubbing at the spot more vigorously now, which was only making it worse.
Mom, can I have two-hundred dollars? She asked, changing the subject. Yes, I’ll give it to you as soon as you finish this.
Mom, should I get a nose job? I asked, examining my reflection in the window above the sink. No, she said firmly —c’mon, keep chopping, take a sip of wine—and with that she handed me a big jug of red as if it had been hiding in the large front pocket of her pink and black ‘kiss the cook’ apron all along.
Please, she insisted, relax already. She watched me take a shallow sip of wine directly from the bottle, the tart tannins from the Costco-brand wine washing over my tongue as approval lingered in the painted arch of an eyebrow.
Now, you need to incorporate some heat. I like to use jalapeño.
I don’t think you pronounce it with a “j”, I said sniffing. My sister rubbed her eyes and put her head into her hands so hard it looked like it hurt. No, she said from behind her french-manicured nails, you definitely don’t.
Excuse me for not being politically correct, that is not the point. Are we here to make salsa or are we here to be sanctimonious?
Amen, my sister said, as I put down the knife and crunched into a Dorito.
Don’t bring Jesus into this. Look, you have to mix it all together like so. The other secret is lime. Lemon too, but mostly a lot of lime. Salt, pepper, a dash of chili powder, cumin, and don’t forget the cilantro. Cilantro is key to all of this! Make sure it’s fresh, because the dried stuff is pointless.
Mike hates cilantro, my sister said, referring to her husband with an extra emphasis on the word Hate like it was an ingredient unto itself.
Is he allergic? I asked.
She sighed and looked the other way. I shrugged, offered the wine and she accepted the bottle like I was handing her a speeding ticket. She drank long enough until we both heard the chug sound—she seemed surprised by this, and put the bottle down with a look of embarrassment on her face. She wiped her mouth, pushed the bottle back in my direction, delicately burped, and we both started laughing.
By then, mom had finished mixing the salsa and was spooning the final mixture into a red, white and blue striped plastic bowl with little raised stars.
Here, she said. take this to the boys. You two are impossible.