So you want to make your own salsa already? And you’ve only
just begun to read this blog. You must be a high achiever. Before you begin
this concise and well organized recipe, however, please take seriously the note
below:
As posts go, this one qualifies as advanced or expert. If
you haven’t prepared yourself emotionally, etc., now is the time to go off and
explore other posts. One of my favorites is the testimonial by Ed. Then maybe
check out a few others. My point: Prepare yourself. Then return. Don’t rush
your journey to salsahood.
Preliminary
Self-Evaluation
Before you even think about making your own pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, you need to determine whether you’re cut out to follow this recipe with every ounce of determination that you can muster. No one wants to avoid wasting your time more than I do.
Below is a series of questions. Answer each one with a yes or no. Be honest. Deception always catches up with you in the world of salsa. After the questions, you will tally the results and find out whether you should proceed. Good luck.
(1)
Do you always send your mother a card for Mother’s
Day?
(2)
Is your credit rating north of 800?
(3)
Do you feel relaxed when a dog is licking your
toes?
(4)
Do people walk away from you in mid-sentence?
(5)
Are you familiar with the saying about just
falling off a turnip truck?
(6)
Do you believe tourist traps actually trap a few
unsuspecting tourists?
(7)
Do people leave your parties early, take items,
and don’t say good-bye?
(8)
Does that man in the grocery line have a funny
smell?
(9)
Do you believe someone’s texting bad things
about you right now?
(10) Do you really believe the
lyrics “these boots were made for walking”?
Okay, the test is over. You can breathe again. Now for the results: If you answered yes at least 2 times, salsa making may not be for you. Maybe have a cup of coffee and reflect upon your life. Resist feeling ashamed. Go for a walk. Volunteer. Accept that you can’t always make the cut in all aspects of your life.
The next big step
If you haven’t already been weeded out, you may be thinking right now that salsa making is a lot more stressful than you had anticipated. You would be correct. If you want “pretty good” salsa, the stress is likely to become unbearable at points. A suggestion: To relax, think of your favorite sign. Here is mine . . .
One giant step
You’re going to need some stuff. Let’s start with the smoker.
Smokers can be very expensive. I recommend borrowing one
from your neighbor. However, if your neighbor is the anal type who insists that
you return it, then buying a smoker may be required. Keep in mind that buying a
smoker for the single purpose of salsa making equals some very expensive salsa.
See formula: with f ≠ used smoker
It gets a bit tricky. What the formula
suggests is that if you buy a top of the line smoker, the amortized cost of
salsa per jar will run you anywhere from $119.50 to $174.38 over the life of
the smoker. Something to consider.
Another thing to consider: Where do you want to buy your new smoker? A major consideration is the financial health of the firm, along with its overall management style. To help you, I analyzed the stock price action of 3 big retailers—Walmart, Target, and Amazon. Their one-year stock charts are displayed below.
What can be gleaned from these charts?
Not much other than they’re not really good buys. You could go deep in the
money long Call options, and then play it by ear, or better yet, wait for a
fall correction. It’s your call, so to speak.
So, you ask, again, where should you buy your smoker? Well, Amazon will ship it to you, but forget about customer service. Target has questionable management, losing a pile in an ill-conceived Canadian venture. The average age of Walmart employees is roughly 69.5 years old, which means they’re likely to break a hip when trying to load the new smoker into your car.
Recommendation: Don’t buy a smoker. Put some wood chips in your grill and call it a day.
That’s settled.
Time for a break
Not quite finished yet, but you’re on your way. While the briquettes are firing up, you have a few moments to relax. My suggestion is to have something to drink. Coffee, possibly. Or an adult beverage. Your call.
Having a beverage reminds me of the age old question: What should I drink with my chips and salsa? I have lots of ideas, but I’d like to hear from you. If you have a suggestion, please e-mail me at duane.hawkinson@gmail.com (a real e-mail address) and in return I will put your name in the pool of people eligible to win a free jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. (For more details about winning free salsa, see So you'd like a free sample of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa? post.) If I really like your idea, I’ll put your name in twice to improve your odds of winning (a worthwhile consolation should your own attempts here crash and burn).
Moving it along . . .
Now, I could say, just find any jar or two, wash them out, and you should be set. Nothing could
be further from the truth.
Let me explain . . .
* *
*
At the tender age of five (still early in my development as
a rotten little kid), I found myself one day sitting alone in my grandmother’s
parlor, a little room cramped with too much overstuffed furniture, probably
brought over from the old country (a.k.a. Sweden). At least it smelled as
though it had been stowed with the bilge at the bottom of a freighter for a long,
long voyage.
The circumstances for my visit I don’t recall. I may have been
prevented from attending a funeral, for fear that I’d become too curious about
the corpse, or I may have been punished for my habitual apple stealing, which
was strictly a seasonal weakness on my part.
At the edge of an overstuffed chair I sat, my left knee
twitching. On the table in front of me stood a bowl overflowing with mints,
soft little cubes that, if left out too long, would eventually turn into little
jaw breakers. They looked tempting. Then again, my knee was twitching. Clearly,
hard decisions lay ahead.
While Grandmother fiddled in the kitchen, I quietly took a
single mint and waited. No repercussions. I returned to the bowl and took small
handfuls, which eventually turned into large handfuls, which eventually turned
into an empty candy bowl and one very hyped up five year old. My knee was now
twitching uncontrollably.
Grandmother entered the parlor noiselessly and stood in
front of me, her bourbon barrel body blotting out the kitchen light and with it
most of my hope for a happy ending. Smiling at first, she wiped her hands on a
cloth stuffed into her apron. Then she looked at the candy bowl. Then she
looked at me. Her eyes grew smaller by the second. Back and forth, to the candy
bowl and to me, over and over again. For about twenty minutes was my best
guess.
Finally, in a conspiratorial tone, she whispered to me, “My
dear little Duane, would you do me a favor?” Her breath poured over me like a
thousand ancient casseroles, not all entirely successful.
Who was I to refuse? I had already committed a crime against
humanity.
“I need some mason jars,” she continued. “Would you be a
little dear and get them from the cellar?”
She led me to the cellar door. It opened with an agonized
creak and released the stale air of the souls of a thousand rotten little kids,
I had imagined. She gave me a little shove, and down the steep and narrow steps
I crept to a little room surrounded by shelves of mason jars. “I’ll need
three,” she ordered from the top of the stairs.
 |
| Anything but mason jars |
As I reached for the jars, the door slammed shut. “A
monster! A monster!” Her voice shrieked. Never before now had I any reason to
believe adults were capable of guile; I let the mason jars crash on the
concrete floor and scrambled up the steps. The door was locked, or was it
unlocked but an unmovable object kept it from opening? I still don’t recall to
this day. Then the single ceiling light went out. “Monsters! So many monsters!”
came from just inches away through the old plank door.
I pounded and cried, “Grandma, Grandma, help! The door is
locked! Let me out!” I could feel the monsters tugging at my sneakers; soon I’d
be pulled down into the darkness and eaten alive, my bones broken into pieces
and stored in the remaining mason jars.
“Oh . . . you’re still here,” Grandmother said, letting the
door fall open, her voice filled with bitter disappointment.
* *
*
Choose jars right for you, but I can’t recommend mason jars.
I have a bad association.
Let’s keep this
moving before we run out of daylight
When you think of salsa, you should think of a house. The
three main ingredients—tomatoes, onions, and peppers—form the foundation, or
the basement. The fresh herbs and stuff comprise the main floor; they are sort
of like your kitchen and living room and bathroom (okay, not your bathroom) and
whatever other rooms your home has, depending on how rich you are. In other words,
they are really the heart of your salsa, and they will determine whether your
salsa turns out “pretty good.” Finally, the dry ingredients—the sugar, salt,
pepper, related spices, vinegar, and lemon/lime juice—make up the roof of your
salsa. You don’t really notice them when they’re there, but if they’re not
there, and in the right combinations, you probably won’t end up with “pretty
good” salsa. (Yes, I know vinegar and lemon/lime juice are not dry ingredients, but I didn’t know where
else to put them.)
Let’s start with the veggies.
Your salsa making must begin within two hours of harvest.
(That’s a critical point based on the laws of chemistry; I could offer a
detailed proof, but let’s skip it for the sake of brevity.) If you don’t have a
garden, wander over to your neighbor’s while he’s at work; make sure to bring a
“treat” for his yippy Chihuahua. If you have neither a garden nor a neighbor
with one, do not substitute fresh veggies for store bought ones, and do not buy
from a neighborhood stand; the prices are outrageous and, who knows, the
employees may have spit on them out of spite. (Working at a veggie stand in the
middle of the summer makes one bitter about one’s life choices, which leads to
acting out in some cases.) If you absolutely cannot find fresh veggies, stop
reading now. You have been disqualified. (I suspect you may have cheated on
your Preliminary Self-Evaluation.) Go play a round of golf or something.
Now let’s get our
hands dirty (so to speak)
This step is strictly optional, but critical if you wish to
have a meaningful experience in both your salsa making and your salsa eating.
Here’s what you do. Name your veggies. That’s right. You’ll bond with them and
fully appreciate your salsa eating experience when you know the sacrifice they’ve made for you. As you munch, you may even stop to think about Mavis or
Karl or Devon, and you may feel a moment of regret. This will pass, but it’s
important that you process the experience. I do this as a matter of course. The
practice has helped me become one with the salsa.
It’s math time again. My formula, when strictly followed,
will result in “pretty good” salsa almost every time. It’s a trade secret, so
keep it to yourself: In a word, it’s all about . . . Proportionality.
Now, wrap your mind around this logic.
As the anchor in salsa making, the tomato gets top billing.
You should therefore use 12 tomatoes for every 1 onion and 1 pepper (or .8
pepper and .2 hot pepper or .95 pepper and .05 really hot pepper, it’s your
call), dividing this group into 3 piles, approximately 1/3 for smoking (for
that silky, smoky flavor), 1/3 for raw stuff (for that fresh, tart flavor), and
1/3 for stovetop steaming (for that rich, savory flavor). For you advanced
cooks, you can divide the group into fifths, and put 1 into the oven and 1 into
the microwave for a flavor profile so subtle and sophisticated that only the
most highly trained palette will notice the difference. In a recent taste test, a
local fry cook noted, “I can’t tell the difference.”
Put the raw veggies in the refrigerator, so long as you
don’t store any apples in there. Apple gases will interact with the raw veggies
and do things that you don’t even want to know about. Allow the smoking veggies
to remain on the grill for approximately 70% longer than your stovetop
steamers. “Hold on, just one minute,” you’re saying. “What if some of the
tomatoes are too small or too big or have beetle larvae growing in them or what
if I dropped one and accidentally stepped on it, can I still use it, and what
do I do with the seeds and the skin and all that goopy stuff on the inside?”
All good questions. Perhaps cut down on the caffeine.
The veggies on the grill, which should have been quartered
(sorry, I forgot to tell you), should now be brought in to cool. Pour off the
excess water from the steamed veggies and combine them with the smoked veggies
so they have a few moments to get acquainted. Caution: Never mix the cold
veggies with the hot veggies. You could end up with something resembling pasta
sauce.
After a suitable period, throw your ingredients into the
food processor, but don’t overmix. Again: Think pasta sauce. Drain out any
excess water, reduce it by 85%, and then re-add it to your veggies.
Now, for the next golden mean ratio: Sugar is the star.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” you say. “Isn’t sugar bad for you? Doesn’t it
do all kinds of bad things to your body? Doesn’t it? Won’t it make my kids
hyper? I can’t have that. I can barely control them now. Please, tell me this
recipe won’t make my kids hyper. Can you
do that?” (Yes, I can do that. This recipe will not make your kids hyper.) Use 8 parts of sugar to 1 part of salt to
1.5 parts of pepper to .25 part of garlic to .35 part of vinegar to .5 part of
lemon or lime juice to 1 part of my secret ingredient (commercial steak
seasoning) to 1 part of your own favorite spice. Don’t use cinnamon, however.
That would make your kids hyper.
To enhance your flavor profile, add freshly chopped Italian
parsley. (For some reason, I can’t grow cilantro, but I wouldn’t recommend it
anyway.) Also, cook about 40% of your parsley for a few moments for a sweet
flavor that the raw stuff just can’t duplicate. When all of that is done,
immediately jam your own “pretty good” salsa into a jar and seal it tight to
keep the good flavor in and the bad air out. Now, as you're jamming away,
you’re saying, “But my salsa is separating. Have I done something bad? Am I a bad person? Have I
gone desperately off the tracks?” Not at all. “Pretty good” salsa is designed
to puddle.
Before hacking the
life out of your veggies
 |
| Naming veggies improves opportunities for bonding |
I’m concerned . . .
my salsa tastes funny
You may have done something wrong, especially if your math
skills are weak. Or you’re worrying about nothing, which is far more likely.
I may be receiving a visit from a black limousine with black
tinted windows for saying this, but I’ll take the risk for your benefit: It’s a
well-known industry secret that the big boys in the salsa world have teamed up
with big PHARMA to dump piles of secret combinations of rejiggered molecular
structures (See Time magazine’s headline story “Big PHARMA denies any
connection to Big Boys of Salsa”) into commercially sold salsa in an attempt to
denature and stabilize the naturally perky yet highly volatile personality
commonly found in homemade salsas. In other words, don’t worry. Your salsa is
just expressing itself.
According to my own research in the world of “pretty good”
salsa, “pretty good” salsa has a half-life that goes something like this: Day 1, getting to “pretty good,” yet
unstable, subject to extreme changes; Day
2, achieving “pretty good-hood”; Day
3, peak flavor—it will never get any “pretty gooder” than this; Day 4, flavor is sliding down the bell
curve, still suitable for guests that you’re not “in love” with; Day 5, time to offer your salsa
leftovers to your dog, or your neighbor, or your neighbor’s dog. Your call.
 |
| I'll help you when I'm free . . . |
If you’re still unsure about whether you’ve made a critical
error, you can always e-mail me with your concerns. See e-mail address above.
Use as your Subject Heading: “Concerned that I may be poisoning my family.”
Tell me what you did to screw up, and I’ll offer my best advice.
Final words
Always remember: Keep chilled. Shake well before opening. Serve
warm, cold, or at room temperature. Your call.
Congratulations. You’ve achieved salsahood. Now clean up
your kitchen, for god’s sakes.
Then read my other posts. They’re not going to read
themselves . . . A few are actually pretty good.
Thank you. You’ve been a good sport.
 |
| (your name here) pretty good Smokehouse Salsa |
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