Ceviche De Pescado – Lime-Cured Fish With Tomato, Onion, And Chile

Cousin Luis once tried to make ceviche with gummy worms. ¡Ay Dios mío! It was… a situation.

The Ocean’s Embrace

A zesty journey through Peruvian history.

Now, ceviche. Everyone thinks it’s a Mexican thing. That boy, Luis, with his gummy worms? He thought it was a Taco Bell item. But let me tell you, mija, ceviche is older than Abuela’s complaints about the neighbor’s dog. (Which, honestly, are pretty old.) It started way back with the Inca people in Peru, centuries ago. They figured out how to “cook” fish with the acid in lime juice. No fire, no problem! Just sunshine, limes, and the freshest catch.

The Spanish came along, of course, and added their own twist—onions, cilantro—things they brought from Europe. Over time, every country along the coast had to get in on it. Ecuador, Chile, Colombia… even Panama. Each one put their little stamp on it. Which means my abuelita’s version is, naturally, the best. Don’t tell the others.

But the core idea remains: take beautiful, fresh fish, marinate it in citrus, and boom. You've got a party in your mouth. (Unless it's gummy worm ceviche. Then it's just a party in the emergency room.) We don’t talk about the gummy worms anymore. Seriously.

It all started last summer. I called Abuela to ask for her ceviche recipe. She said, “Oh, I don’t have a recipe, mija.” Like she hasn’t been making it for seventy years! "It's in my hands!" Then she launched into a story about Tío Ricardo sneaking extra chile habanero into hers when he was twelve. He thought it made him look macho. She just grounded him for a month.

I swear, that woman has a memory like a steel trap when it comes to who did what wrong. But ask her where she put her glasses? ¡Olvidó todo! (She forgot everything!) Anyway, I convinced her to try and walk me through it. It involved a lot of yelling, hand gestures over the phone, and eventually, Tía Mildred butting in with unsolicited advice.

“You need a good fish,” Tía Mildred declared, as if I didn’t know that. “And don’t use those frozen fillets! They taste like sadness!” Honestly, Tía Mildred always has an opinion. Everything is either perfect or a tragedy with her. And usually, she thinks it’s a tragedy. Like the time she tried to dye her hair blonde. Oh boy…

Abuelita then told me, “Mildred, leave the girl alone. You should be making flan, not giving instructions on ceviche.” Which, of course, just made Tía Mildred even more determined to explain every single step. She started listing types of chiles—serrano, jalapeño, habanero—like she was conducting a masterclass. “The habanero is for brave people, mijita," she warned. "You want flavor, not a fire alarm!”

While Abuela and Tía Mildred argued, my husband Carlos walked in, grabbed a lime, and started juicing it directly into his beer. He mumbled something about needing a little zing. Men. Then Abuela noticed and nearly had a heart attack. “Carlos! What are you doing?! That’s for the ceviche!” Carlos shrugged. "It's all citrus, no?" He did not get away with that comment.

The whole thing devolved into chaos. Cousins started calling to ask what we were having for dinner. The neighbors were peering through the window, hoping for gossip (they always do). Abuela was yelling at everyone, Tía Mildred was lecturing about chile heat levels, and Carlos was quietly trying to avoid eye contact. It was a typical family gathering, honestly.

I finally managed to piece together something resembling a recipe, scribbling notes frantically while dodging flying tortillas and Abuela’s exasperated sighs. It took me three tries to get it right, and each time, Tía Mildred had feedback. “Too much onion!” “Not enough cilantro!” “Where’s the love, mija?!” I swear, making ceviche with my family is more exhausting than actual cooking.

But when it finally came out perfect – bright, fresh, zesty – it was worth every second of madness. That first bite…oh. Heaven. Even Tía Mildred admitted it was “acceptable.” Which from her, is basically a rave review. And even Carlos shut up and just ate it. It was glorious. The smell brought back memories of summers at the beach, laughter, and Abuelita's unwavering love—even when she's yelling at you.

Recipe

Ceviche de Pescado – Lime-cured fish with tomato, onion, and chile

(A taste of sunshine and family drama.)

Ingredients 🌽🥘

• 1.5 lbs firm white fish (such as snapper, flounder, or halibut), cut into ½-inch cubes
• ¾ cup fresh lime juice (about 8-10 limes) – Abuela says never use bottled!
• 1 medium red onion, thinly sliced
• 2 Roma tomatoes, seeded and diced
• 1-2 serrano chiles, finely minced (adjust to your spice preference – ¡ándale, be brave!)
• ½ cup chopped cilantro
• 1 teaspoon kosher salt (or to taste)
• ¼ teaspoon black pepper
• 1 avocado, diced for garnish (optional, but encouraged)
• Tortilla chips or tostadas, for serving

Tools 🔪🥄

• Large glass or stainless steel bowl
• Cutting board
• Sharp knife
• Citrus juicer
• Mixing spoon

Steps

1. Place the cubed fish in a large bowl. Pour the lime juice over the fish, ensuring it’s fully submerged. This is where the “cooking” happens—the acid denatures the proteins in the fish. Abuela always said, “The lime must hug every piece!”
2. Let the fish marinate in the refrigerator for at least 15-20 minutes, or until the fish turns opaque and firm. Stir occasionally. Don’t go too long or it will get rubbery. Tía Mildred would have my head if I let that happen.
3. While the fish marinates, prepare the other ingredients: slice the onion, dice the tomatoes, mince the chile (carefully!), and chop the cilantro. Carlos tried to help with the chopping once. It ended poorly.
4. Once the fish is marinated, drain off most of the lime juice (but save a little!). Add the red onion, tomatoes, serrano chile, cilantro, salt, and pepper to the bowl. Gently stir everything together. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed. More lime? More salt? Don’t be shy!
5. Refrigerate for another 5-10 minutes to allow the flavors to meld. This is crucial, mija. Patience!
6. To serve, divide the ceviche among bowls or plates. Garnish with diced avocado, if desired. Serve immediately with tortilla chips or tostadas. And maybe a cold beer. (Don't tell Abuela.)

Make-Ahead / Storage

• Ceviche is best served immediately.
• You can marinate the fish for up to 30 minutes, but longer than that and it can become tough.
• Leftovers can be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours, but the texture will change. The fish won’t be as firm.
• Do not freeze ceviche. ¡Por favor! It ruins everything.

Side Dish Pairing

• Mango salsa with jicama – the sweetness perfectly complements the zesty ceviche.
• A simple green salad with a light vinaigrette to cleanse the palate.

Mi abuelita siempre decía, "A good ceviche cures everything—even a bad attitude

."

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