by Alicia Inez Guzmán on
MY SECOND YEAR IN GRAD SCHOOL, I promised to serve chiles rellenos to my PhD adviser and her husband. Without my mom as my kitchen consigliere, and in a studio apartment that was as cramped as the Santa Fe Whole Foods parking lot, I vowed to come through on that promise. About a week before, I’d smuggled a frozen block of whole Hatch green chiles in my carry-on from Albuquerque to Rochester, New York—enough to have dinner and then some. I stood in my kitchen frantically preparing dinner, never having made rellenos alone. Only now does it strike me as funny: a high-strung norteña trying to survive a doctoral program with Hatch green chile carted in a freezer bag through several airports, and a recipe I’d only partially memorized.
So I called my mom.
I was fuzzy on the process, not to mention flustered, so she walked me through it over the phone, giving offhand measurements while trying to keep me from flying off the handle. When I finally felt confident to finish on my own, we wrapped up the call. She asked, “Are you good, mija?”
During those years spent on the East Coast, I eventually learned how to make chiles rellenos on my own. In hindsight, though, they always seemed to be missing something—my mom, the former elementary principal and old-school mera mera who balks at the mention of a measuring cup. Now that I’m back in New Mexico, she’s always by my side, still using the same retro brown hand mixer—which I estimate is at least 10 years older than me—because, well, it still works, and still sharing the latest juicy mitote in the process. Making rellenos together is a special undertaking that she plans weeks in advance. Weeks.
Above: Chiles rellenos smothered in pumpkin mole.
When the big day arrives, I head up to my parents’ house in Truchas, my north star, the place that holds firm when all else threatens otherwise. It’s where, as kids, my older sister and I witnessed my great-grandmother reach 103. It’s where I learned to make rellenos. I help my mom prep the kitchen assembly line, having long ago memorized the tasks. With nary a tool for measuring in sight, we begin.
My mom roasts the chiles and then lets them sweat until they’re ready to peel. Once she takes their skins off, I make a small incision straight down the center, stuffing each with hunks of cheese, closing the incision, and dredging them in a coating of flour. Then comes the magic: the egg batter, a recipe that my mom credits equally to my maternal and paternal grandmothers. In northern New Mexico, the batter is called torta de huevo, and most of the time it’s dolloped into a pan like mini-pancakes. Those fluffy disks are added to red chile in place of meat, a delicacy that’s popular during Lent. When used for chiles rellenos, though, the torta de huevo batter mimics rellenos recipes beloved in Mexico.
As my mom separates the yolks from the whites, I turn on the hand mixer to the highest setting, unfazed by its age, and whip the batter to full peak, adding the yolks in afterwards for a creamy consistency. I dunk the stuffed green chiles in the fluff and quickly set them in a hot, oiled pan. Under the heat, the egg batter fluffs up even more, giving the stuffed green chile a golden halo.
Sizzling before our eyes is what can only be described as green chile apotheosis. It’s home to me—this kitchen, this ritual.
Read more: Our top picks for a few unusual chile recipes featured in New Mexico Magazine.
DOLORES GUZMÁN'S CHILES RELLENOS
MOLE AMARILLO