Chicharrón En Salsa Verde – Pork Rinds Simmered In Green Chile Sauce.
Okay, okay, this is a story about chicharrón en salsa verde. Because, you know, sometimes things just...happen. Like when Tía Mildred decided to "help" with the cooking. ¡Ay Dios mío!
So, chicharrón. Everyone thinks it’s just…fried pork skin. (Please, don’t tell my abuelita I said that.) It’s so much more. It’s history. See, people were preserving pork in its fat for centuries. The Spanish came over—conquistadors, of course, causing problems—and they brought their own methods. But Indigenous folks had already been doing something similar, using different spices, drying meat…It all mixed together, mija. You get this amazing texture, this deep flavor. It wasn’t fancy food, understand? It was what you made when you didn’t want anything to go bad. Practicality. And deliciousness, obviously.
Then, later, they started making chicharrón prensado. That's when they press the pork rinds together into a block and fry that. It’s like, extra crunchy. (My cousin Pedro only likes the prensado. Thinks regular chicharrón is “flimsy.”) And then, somebody—probably a very hungry genius—decided to simmer those crispy beauties in salsa verde. The green sauce. Chile, tomatillos, cilantro, onion…all blended up. And heaven appeared.
It all comes back to Abuelita, naturally. She could make magic out of a single tomato. I remember being little, maybe seven or eight, she was making chicharrón en salsa verde for a party. A big one. Like, everyone-in-the-neighborhood kind of party. My job—and let me tell you, it felt very important at the time—was to taste the salsa. Just to make sure it was perfect. ¡Claro! Every five minutes, she'd hand me a spoon. "Está bueno?" she'd ask. "Mm-hmm," I’d say, trying not to burn my tongue. (She did not hold back on the chiles.)
Then Tía Mildred arrived. Oh, Tía Mildred. She means well. Truly. But her idea of "helping" usually involves rearranging everything and adding an ingredient nobody asked for. This time, it was pineapple. Pineapple! In chicharrón en salsa verde. "It needs a little sweetness," she declared, brandishing a can of Dole. My abuelita just stared at her. A long, slow stare.
"Mildred," she said, finally, in a voice that could curdle milk, "are you questioning my cooking?"
Tía Mildred, to her credit, backed down immediately. “No, no, Ofelia, just…an idea!” She tried to discreetly sneak a chunk of pineapple into the pot. Abuelita caught her. With a wooden spoon. It was…a moment. The cousins were hiding behind the sofa, giggling. I just kept tasting the salsa, pretending I didn't see anything. It was safer that way. ¡Ay, Dios mío!
After the pineapple incident, Abuelita made me promise to guard the salsa with my life. I took my job very seriously. I sat next to the pot, glaring at anyone who came near. Even my own mother. Which is why, when she tried to sneak a taste, I screamed. Like, full-on, seven-year-old scream.
“Mija, it's just a little taste!" she pleaded.
"Abuelita said NO!" I shrieked.
She looked at Abuelita, who gave her a tiny nod. (Abuelita always sided with me. Always.) My mom just sighed and went to help with the tortillas. Honestly, the drama? It was exhausting. But worth it. That chicharrón en salsa verde was legendary. And nobody—not even Tía Mildred—could ruin it. Not with pineapple, not with anything.
Then there was the time Carlos—my husband—tried to “improve” the recipe. (He’s a good man, Carlos. Just…not a cook.) He decided it needed a splash of vinegar. A SPLASH! It almost ruined the whole batch. I swear, I saw Abuelita’s eye twitch. She calmly removed the pot from the stove, handed Carlos a dish towel, and told him to go "admire the garden." He spent the rest of the afternoon weeding roses. ¡Andale!
The best part about making this dish, though, isn’t just the eating. It's the remembering. All those crazy stories, all the laughter, all the love. It's Abuelita’s hands, stirring the pot, her smile, the smell of chiles roasting. It's Tía Mildred trying to be helpful, and failing spectacularly. It's knowing that every bite is a connection to something bigger than ourselves. To our family. To our history. And, yeah, maybe a little bit to the chaos.
Recipe
Ingredients 🌽🥘
- 1 pound pork rinds (chicharrón)
- 1 pound tomatillos, husked and washed
- 4-6 serrano peppers, stemmed (adjust to taste)
- 1 medium white onion, roughly chopped
- 3 cloves garlic, peeled
- 1/2 cup cilantro, roughly chopped
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
- 1 teaspoon salt, or to taste
- 1/2 teaspoon cumin
- 1/4 cup chicken broth (optional, for thinner sauce)
Tools 🔪🥄
- Large pot or Dutch oven
- Blender or food processor
- Large skillet
- Cutting board
- Knife
Steps
- First, we make the salsa verde! Roast the tomatillos and serranos in a dry skillet over medium heat until they blister and char slightly. This takes about 10-15 minutes. Watch them carefully, don't let them burn completely—burnt tomatillos are sad tomatillos.
- Place the roasted tomatillos, serranos, onion, garlic, and cilantro into a blender or food processor. Add salt and cumin. Blend until smooth. If it’s too thick, add chicken broth, one tablespoon at a time, until you reach your desired consistency. Don’t be shy with the cilantro—it makes all the difference.
- In a large pot or Dutch oven, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the pork rinds and cook for about 5-7 minutes, stirring occasionally, until they start to crisp up a bit more. (They’re already crispy, but we want EXTRA crispy.) It's like a second chance for crunchiness.
- Pour the salsa verde over the pork rinds. Bring to a simmer, then reduce heat to low, cover, and cook for about 1 hour to 1 hour and 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. The longer it simmers, the more the flavors meld together. This is where the magic happens.
- Taste and adjust seasoning as needed. Remember, everyone has different spice tolerances. And you can always add more salt, but you can't take it away! ¡Ay, Dios mío!
Make-Ahead / Storage
- Salsa verde can be made 2-3 days in advance and stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator.
- Chicharrón en salsa verde can also be made ahead of time; it actually tastes better the next day as the flavors develop. Store in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.
- Reheat gently on the stovetop over medium-low heat. Be careful not to burn it. (Or let Tía Mildred near it.)
- Freeze leftovers for up to 2 months. Thaw overnight in the refrigerator before reheating.
Side Dish Pairing
- Esquites (Mexican street corn salad) – the sweetness complements the spicy chicharrón beautifully.
- Nopales salad (cactus salad)—bright,
tangy, and refreshing. - Mexican rice – a classic pairing that soaks up all that delicious salsa verde. - Warm tortillas – for scooping up every last bit of sauce. ¡No waste!
And if anyone asks what makes this dish so special, just tell them it’s “a little bit of love from my kitchen… and Tía Mildred.”
