Sacks of Pueblo Green Chile on Display at DiSanti Farms, June 2020

by Caleb González (English)

There is a saying among some of the youngsters of my hometown of Pueblo, Colorado that the city itself is an abyss. That once a person grows up there, it is nearly impossible to leave, even when they do leave. As a teenager, my friends and I spoke of this truth almost as an absolute. As if the city had us bound to the land and we were unable to leave. I know this might be odd to say but I wonder if the city’s abyss is, in part at least, because of its roasted green chile. Everyone is hooked on it all year around. In many ways, Pueblo chile is grounding. It brings people back to a sense of community even in extraordinary and uncertain times.

The southwest crop is distinguishable because it is locally grown, and it can be an additive ingredient to a variety of meals. The New Mexico equivalent is the Hatch Chile (some have been known to engage heated arguments over which crop is better). In Southern Colorado, green chile can be made as a simple stew with a roux base that makes it thick. In addition to the chile, it tends to have diced tomatoes, broth or water, onions, maybe garlic, and a pork butt or shoulder cut into pieces and trimmed of excess fat. It has a roasted flavor and a warmth that can satisfy the stomach even in the summer. My grandmother always has a container filled with diced green chile and onions. She keeps it at a close distance.

It can be found in almost every restaurant and market in the city of Pueblo. Before the pandemic, thousands of bushels were roasted on the streets of downtown during the annual Chile and Frijoles Festival. The pubs serve up a surprisingly divine green chile beer that comes with a hint of spice and a reminder that fall has arrived.

Growing up, I remember pork green chile as a house and even a church dish. It was a Christmas must and a direct substitute for brown gravy. For church potlucks, there could sometimes be two or three dishes of green chile available, some made with pork while others had ground beef with varying degrees of spice. When my dad prayed over the food, a more specific prayer would sometimes emerge in my head. Bless the green chile in the room. For fundraisers, my parents along with the hermanos and hermanas from church would make tamales and pints of green chile. This is what often paid the bills.

I heard that the farms were open with distancing measures shortly after driving in from Ohio. I travel with my parents to DiSanti Farms in rural Pueblo para ver que onda. Driving on the dirt road with my window slightly open, I can smell the roasted chile as we pass by the cornfields. I can almost hear the charred peppers crack over the fire. Wearing a dark blue Denver Broncos t-shirt and carrying her purse, my mom approaches the half-open market with her shoulders back and her head held high. My dad remains near the car. I see barrels of locally grown pinto beans, black beans, and deep red kidney beans, boxes of potatoes, homemade green chile jams, smaller peppers like serranos and chile de árbol. In the middle of the market, there are boxes of watermelons larger than basketballs. The green chile is located in the back and it must be requested. It seems complicated at first but after requesting a bushel, a woman wearing a large mask goes to the back. Within seconds, she returns with a bag of fresh silky green chile peppers, each larger than my hand.

My mom confirms with the cashier that we can get the chile roasted before we leave. After the purchase, she carefully hands the bag to a woman, one of the chile roasters, as if she were handing her a fragile Christmas gift with both hands. The woman takes the bag and slowly opens one of the empty pepper roasters, lighting another fire below. The roaster spins for what seems like 15 minutes. I feel the fire on my face in the summer Colorado dry heat and I can almost taste the seeds of the roasted green chile through my mask. At one point, the pepper roaster spins so fast that all I see is blotches of green. With shoulders back and a clear focus, the woman pulls out a short water hose spraying the roaster down to hydrate the chile as it spins. I stand about seven feet away with the sun beaming on my head, tapping into the abyss of my hometown. The abyss of the green chile that pulls me back in.

Arriving at the apartment, I open the freezer to make space. “We can leave some of it out for dinner this evening” my mom says while passing me by. “You can help me make some pork green chile for dinner.”