Pipián Verde de Convento

Puebla de los Ángeles, in the central valley below Popocatépetl, is where this pipián verde de convento belongs. Think of the talavera-lined kitchen of Santa Rosa and the closed discipline of Santa Mónica: women grinding, tasting, correcting, and recording sauces that could feed a refectory, not impress one guest. This is a sauce. The chicken, turkey, pork, squash, or tamal it dresses lives somewhere else.

The green comes from tomatillo, jalapeño, chile poblano, cilantro, hoja santa, epazote, and lettuce. The body comes from pepita, almond, ajonjolí, bread, and patience. Do not confuse this with salsa verde. Salsa verde runs. Pipián coats. It should move slowly from the spoon, glossy and seed-thick, with the green herbs still alive under the toasted pepita.

El metate es la regla. A blender will help you if your kitchen is modern, but it does not excuse lazy grinding or raw seed flavor. Toast the pepitas on the comal. Toast the sesame. Wake up the canela and clavo. Fry the paste in manteca until it smells nutty and the fat begins to show at the edge. La manteca es el sabor.

My mother did not make this sauce often. She was Jalisciense, and her notebook respected its borders. But in the margin of one Puebla page she wrote: 'moler fino, no dejar crudo.' Grind it fine, do not leave it raw. That is the whole lesson. La cocina no es decoración, es trabajo.