The first time I knowingly put fresh cilantro in my mouth, I didn’t like it. It tasted like another country, with its strong, weird tang that I couldn’t identify. I was 19 and working in a Thai restaurant north of Seattle, where cilantro suddenly seemed to be everywhere. It was in all my free employee meals, and my Thai boss encouraged me to keep trying it in different dishes. I’d choke these down and then go home, where, to my dismay, my roommates would be making fresh salsas using this herb that notoriously tastes, to some, like soap. Being so lazy at that time that I just ate whatever was put in front of me, cilantro eventually won me over.

That laziness turned out to be a gift to my general palate. I was lucky to have people around me who were creative, who were gardeners, and who loved cooking and food. I think these qualities gradually seeped into my soul by osmosis. In time, I began to notice lots of other food influences around me that had always been there; I’d just never noticed. Today, I love the taste of another country. Cilantro is a staple of my early herb garden. It’s a treasured flavor I use as much as possible, and always tastes like spring. I can’t get enough of it. 

I make the two following salsas every year, to welcome spring and early summer, and cilantro is central to both.

Tomatillo Salsa
Courtesy of a Guy Named Brian Who Lived Down the Street

Ingredients: 
• 1½ lbs. tomatillos
• 5 garlic cloves, unpeeled
• 2 jalapeños, seeds and ribs removed, chopped
• 2 Anaheim or Pasilla chili peppers—these will give your salsa more
   of a bite, and are good if you like spicy foods
• If you don’t like spicy foods so much, try using Poblano peppers
• If you hate spicy foods with the fire of one thousand habanero
   peppers, use a mild, friendly green bell pepper
• 1 bunch cilantro leaves, cleaned and chopped

Directions:
• Remove papery husks from tomatillos and rinse well. Cut in half and place cut side down, along with the garlic cloves, jalapeños, and chiles, on a foil-lined baking sheet. Place under broiler for about 5-7 minutes to lightly blacken the skin. Remove from oven.
• Let cool enough to handle.
• Place cooled tomatillos, skins included, into blender or food processor. Remove roasted garlic cloves from their skins and add to blender. Add peppers and fresh cilantro to the blender. Pulse until all ingredients are finely chopped and mixed.

I’ve been making this salsa for decades, always trying out different combinations. Every ingredient in this can be grown locally, which I have tested in my own garden. In those years when my tomatillo plants won’t produce, I stock up at our Gallatin Valley Farmer’s Market. This salsa can be a stand-alone dip for chips or a sauce for tacos, but it also works well as a braising sauce for Chile Verde, in which your choice of chicken, beef, or pork is seared and simmered in olive oil, salt and pepper, onion, oregano, broth, and a pinch of ground cloves, then stewed in the tomatillo mixture slowly for 1-2 hours.


Spicy Pineapple Salsa
Biscayne National Park

Ingredients: 
• 2 cups diced fresh pineapple (1/2-inch cubes)
• 1 small Fresno chile or jalapeño pepper, seeded and minced
• 1 small shallot, minced
• 1 lime, zested and halved
• ½ teaspoon salt
• ½ cup fresh cilantro, chopped

Directions:
In a medium bowl, toss together pineapple, pepper, shallot, and lime zest. Squeeze juice from lime over mixture, and add salt. Toss until well combined. Stir in cilantro. Serve immediately, or refrigerate for a few hours to allow the flavors to meld.

I stumbled upon this recipe just recently, when reviewing the new National Parks Cookbook (“see p. x” in the print version / insert link to my article on the book for the online version of this?). The book’s introductory paragraph to the salsa drew me in:

“Americans have Sir Lancelot Garfield Jones to thank for the preserved beauty of Biscayne National Park. Jones was born on a sailboat in Biscayne Bay in 1898 to Isael Lafayette Jones and Mozelle Albury, the first Black landowners in the Florida Keys. Eventually, the family became one of the largest Key lime and pineapple producers in the state. After his parents’ deaths, Jones fought to protect their land, ultimately selling it to the U.S. government instead of a corporation. This pineapple salsa is an ode to Jones’s tireless conservation work.”

It’s difficult to imagine living in a place where pineapples grow fresh, but this salsa took me there on a recent sunny afternoon, with blue corn chips and a cold Pacífico. Of course, fresh pineapple and limes are generally out-of-season luxuries in the likes of Montana, and it takes a lot of resources to get them from their native warmer climes to us. So, if that’s important to you, you can use canned fruit and bottled juice instead. The cookbook authors recommend pairing this salsa with grilled whole red snapper, and I’ve used it on grilled tuna steak and mahi-mahi. It’s amazing how much a fruity and spicy salsa can jazz up a piece of fish that I don’t have the expertise to make exciting on its own.

Salsas are an easy way to produce food to share while being creative, and I thank the ol’ college roomies on the Western seaboard who taught me this. I know there are many more fun varieties out there; it was hard to pick these two of my favorites. Most salsas can be readily adjusted to tastes, so if you’re a cilantro-equals-soap person, fear not. Have some fun with different flavors and find yours this summer—bonus points for growing some of your own ingredients, or supporting our local farmer’s markets!