I’ve always loved the alchemy of guacamole—
crushed chile caribe from San Juan Pueblo
gray sea salt
a bright lemon
minced onion, garlic, and tomatoes
I used to make it all the time in Santa Fe, slowly drawing the ingredients together on a plate, adding a bit more this or that, tasting again, then letting sit and chill for an hour or so until the flavors have perfected one another.
And at the Writing Mills in Mallorca, after our day of critiquing novel chapters, as the Cuban rum and English gin and dry Spanish moscato were being set out, I would add southwestern guacamole to the exotic appetizers on offer there in the heart of the Mediterranean, that island thick with olive trees and almonds and Aleppo pine, and we would eat it looking out on the darkening sea. It fit perfectly there.
Now, to me, it tastes like summer. But its making is much of the satisfaction. It is a kind of meditation, like kneading bread or chopping vegetables in the Buddhist spirit. Making guacamole brings proper order—lovingkindness—to the world.
image: Guacamole, Kalyn’s Kitchen