Slivered onions cook in smoking olive oil just before I shake in some minced garlic, just enough for a pleasing aroma. I have chosen to use the 10-inch skillet, but I am just realizing it may be too small once I add my other ingredients. Still, it pleases me to use my cherry red cookware, a wedding gift from my new mother-in-law.
The recipe for "Quick Turkey Enchiladas" was hand-picked by my husband David to be the first meal I cook as a newlywed. It will be the first of 15 that I will cook before the end of summer, September 22, at 16:18 CDT. We were married on June 18, but I haven't started cooking meals in the kitchen until tonight, July 30.
Already I am substituting, a trademark I have been destined to establish since childhood. I cook intuitively and without urgency. For these enchiladas, I use diced chicken instead of ground turkey and green chilies instead of jalapenos. I add fresh diced tomatoes.
From my experience in the food service industry, I am acquainted with food-handling procedure. I clean my raw chicken in the sink before dicing it on my cutting board for raw meat only. Immediately I wash the cutting board and knife after transferring the chicken to the skillet.
My chef's knife is my favored asset, an extension of my self. I delight in mincing, chopping and the like. I take the handle in my right hand, my index finger pointed, resting against the blunt edge. The tips of the fingers of my left hand press against that same edge, close to the tip of the knife. With a rocking motion I move the knife across a pile of fresh cilantro, releasing the pristine scent to mix with the aroma of onion and garlic, soon to complement the redolence of enchilada sauce and grilled chicken.
The filling for the tortillas I have warmed in the microwave is complete once I have stirred in shredded Monterey Jack cheese. I wrap 1/2 cup of filling in each of ten 8-inch tortillas and place them seam-side down in my greased 9- by 13-inch glass dish. Once they are topped with enchilada sauce and more cheese, I cover the dish with foil and place them in our oven, heated to 400 degrees. Only fifteen minutes later we are ready to eat.
David has set the table and it is near 6 o’clock. The enchiladas are unveiled and we struggle to get them out of the cooking dish with a ladle. I am not sure why David chose the ladle. A piece of diced chicken falls from one of the enchiladas, a dollop of steaming tomato and gooey cheese on the brown table cloth. David picks it up and pops it in his mouth, and his eyes turn thoughtful and contemplative as he chews slowly with his mouth open, letting the food cool off.
We cut into our meal with our forks. We manage several big bites before we look at each other. The enchilada sauce, medium, is a tad spicy for both of us.
“We’ll get the mild sauce next time,” David suggests. This is good news for me. He wants there to be a next time.
“Maybe the chicken should be shredded instead of diced,” he continues.
“Oh yes. I think so, too,” I reply as I start thinking of how to cook the chicken so I can shred it. I have never eaten enchiladas before, or maybe I have. I cannot remember. I realize I should ask my friend Amy about the quality of what I have made. Amy introduced me to carnitas at a local Mexican restaurant. She had spoken fluent Spanish with the waiters. I considered her fluency in the language and her dating history with Latino men to indicate a palate tuned to the excellence of their cuisine as well. Excited, I call her,
“Amy! I made enchiladas! Have you eaten? I should have thought to invite you sooner, with your expertise.”
“Well, no, I haven’t eaten. I was just thinking about stopping somewhere and getting something. I’ll just come over there, then.” Amy is coming. I set out a plate for her and grab her a cold one when she arrives not 10 minutes later. After grinning wildly and announcing she is about to buy a house, she helps herself and begins to eat. I pepper her for a reaction.
“What do you think? It might be too spicy. Should the chicken be shredded instead of diced? I have never made anything like this before. I don’t even remember ever eating enchiladas before.”
“Well,” Amy is chewing smaller morsels while she speaks. I notice with pride that David has taken seconds. “The truth is I don’t really eat enchiladas. This is pretty spicy, but it’s not too much.”
We finish eating and David helps me carry the dishes into the kitchen, rinsing everything well at my insistence. Of the 10 enchiladas only 2 are left and David claims them for tomorrow’s lunch. After we talk with Amy about her dream house for a while she goes home and I press David,
“So, grade me. What do you think? Did I make an A? A-?”
“Well,” he emphasizes the end of the word. “You can have a B+. I want to give you room to grow.” I am a little disappointed by this. Yet I had asked, had I not? “You know,” he continues, “I don’t like grading you for it. Why can’t we just enjoy it?”
“You’re right,” I smile. My heart exalts in this accomplishment. This is my first kitchen shared with David. It’s on the northwest corner of a rickety two bedroom house on 2nd Avenue, across from the train tracks. The world shakes when trains go by and the kitchen hums and whirs when we run the washer and dryer in the backroom. The kitchen appliances are propped level with folded cardboard pieces because the linoleum floor is at an incline. My cupboards do not stay closed and there is limited counter space. Cooking is certainly a task in which I find I am in my element. Eating, even more so, though our dining room is at a slight incline, too.
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