In a new (old) cookbook I picked up from our thrift store, I discovered a couple recipes that called for Anaheim peppers. In one recipe the Anaheims were stuffed with cheese, and in another they were used to line the bottom of a pie pan and then covered with a custard of eggs, milk, and cheese and baked. In both cases, the final product was to be eaten wrapped in corn tortillas. 

Unfortunately, neither of my standard grocery stories carried Anaheim peppers so, on the way out of town one day, I swung by the Latino grocery. They didn’t have Anaheims either, but as I walked by the counter on my way out the door, the shop owner stopped me.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

I hesitated — what was the point in telling her what I was looking for when she obviously didn’t have it? — but then I explained what I was looking for anyway, adding, “How do Anaheims compare to poblanos?” which was one of the kinds of peppers she did have.

“Similar,” she said. “But poblanos are shorter, slightly spicier, and their skin is a little thicker. What did you want them for?” And just like that we were deep in conversation about chiles and cheese. When I finally left the store, I carried a bag of poblanos (and a bunch of cilantro, just in case).

Back home, I prepared the chiles, half following the cookbook recipe and half drawing on what the shopkeeper had told me.

I toasted the chiles over the gas burner flame (this makes the entire kitchen smell like you’ve magically been transported to Mexico), before scraping off the blackened skin and slitting their sides so I could remove the seeds and membranes before stuffing each chile with lots of grated Monterey Jack cheese and minced onion. (I was afraid the onion would be too much, but the onions somehow added nuance while managing to stay super subtle — next time, I’m doubling them.) I fried the chiles over medium-low heat in a little bit of oil until they’d softened even more and the cheese was molten. (Actually, I think I only prepared one chile that first time, just to try it. But that one was so good that later — that same day? the next day? — I made all the rest of the chiles in one fell swoop.)

Because here’s the kicker: they go with everything! Stuffed in a tortilla, they make a fantastic quick lunch (salsa, sour cream, and extra cheese optional). They go great alongside a mountain of beans and rice. Other ideas: chop one up and stir it into a skillet of scrambled eggs, or the next time you’re grilling, add one of these to your burger, oo-la-la!

I’m running to town for groceries this afternoon and will be stocking up on all the ingredients for Latino-inspired meals — dry beans, avocados, limes (margaritas!), sour cream, cheese, and, of course, poblanos.

A batch of these and I’ll be set for a week.

Stuffed Poblanos 
With inspiration from The Supper Book by Marion Cunningham.

6-8 fresh poblanos
8 ounces Monterey Jack cheese, grated
1 onion, minced
olive oil

Wash the poblanos and then blister the skins, either directly over a gas flame or under the broiler. Pop them in a plastic bag and let rest for 15 minutes before scraping off the blackened skin with a paring knife.

Cut the poblanos, lengthwise, down one side and remove the membranes and seeds. (If your poblanos are super mild, as mine were, you don’t need to be too picky about this part.). Tuck 1-2 tablespoons of onion into the chile and then stuff with lots of grated cheese. Repeat with the remaining chiles. 

Lightly oil a skillet and slowly fry the chiles over medium heat until they’ve softened and the cheese is heated through, flipping once or twice. If you’d like, lid the skillet to trap steam and soften the chiles even more.

When the cheese bubbles out of the chiles (turning toasty-brown wherever it comes into contact with the skillet), they’re done.

Serve hot, with beans and rice. Or with eggs, on a burger, wrapped in a hot tortilla, whatever. Refrigerate leftovers for future meals.

This same time, years previous: a problem, the quotidian (5.22.17), sauteed lambsquarters with lemon, after one year: Costco reflections, Shirley’s sugar cookies, more on trash, rhubarb streusel muffins.

This same time, years previous: rocking the house, chocolate peanut butter sandwich cookies, campfire cooking, help, the quotidian (5.20.13), up at the property, my favorite things.

Hi World!

The play is over, I just completed four consecutive mornings of (mostly unproductive) writing, and, on the way home from town today, I picked up Vice from Red Box for a date night movie with my lover man and a bag of poblano chiles (from the store, not Red Box) to stuff with cheese and onions and wrap in warm flour tortillas for tonight’s supper (and for my lunch, because I was too excited to wait that long).

Also, I just ate four chocolates, my younger daughter discovered a dead mouse in the trap upstairs (and screamed bloody murder), and there’s a load of laundry in the machine.

Thrills, my life is.

So this is happening:

There was a Mother’s Day special — mothers train free for three weeks — so I decided, why not? If my girls can do it, I can, too.

It’s killing me though. Seriously killing me. By the end of each class, I’m flat on my back on the floor, gasping for air, every muscle in my body — arms, butt, thighs, stomach, back — sizzling and burning.

One week down, two to go, heaven help me.

In other news, a small breeze inspired our trampoline to slam itself into a tree and die.

We’ve gone through so many trampolines, I’ve lost count. Anyone have an old one they want to off-load?

Friends came for supper and the kids set off a whopper of a fireball.

Because we like to go all out for guests.

After two years of being on a waitlist to be a ride-along with AirCare 5 Medevac, my son finally got called up.

He got two, back-to-back flights, lucky kid.

And then, upon delivering one of the stroke victims to the hospital, he got to see the doctor insert some sort of thingy into the guy’s thigh and then watch on the giant screen as it snaked up through the body on its way to the brain to destroy a blood clot.

Yesterday, my older son and daughter took off to go camping in the boonies for several days.

My son had been planning this trip for a couple months now — the light at the end of the tunnel after all those months of study. (That he considers being far removed from technology and a dry bed and running water “A Light At The End Of The Tunnel” baffles me to no end. Is he really my child?)

I asked them if they had something to read —or playing cards or something — and they were like, Nah.

“But what will you do the whole time?” I asked, distressed.

“Throw rocks in the water,” my daughter said.

“Survive,” my son said.

Three other guys are joining them tonight. Also, it’s supposed to rain, and since they are camping in a valley next to a river, I made my son read the first couple pages of Jeannette Walls’ Half Broke Horses in which there is a flash flood. Just, you know, so he knows to climb a tree if he hears the ground start to rumble.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (5.14.18), inclusion, surprise!, driving home the point, the quotidian (5.16.16), Captain Morgan’s rhubarb sours, maseca cornbread, a burger, a play, and some bagels, ’twas an honor.