Carrot salsa al fresco

Just the other day I received a package. I had recently written an email, lamenting that good salsa – or any salsa, for that matter – was one of the things I miss most while living in Poland (look for the list in an upcoming post). As it turns out, a dear friend had the heart to send me a parcel with, among other things, a packet of salsa mix to which I could add fresh tomatoes and savor a little taste of North America as the Polish winter begins to set in. So this afternoon I made a rare – but special – trip to the posh grocery store “Alma” and purchased some overpriced tortilla chips imported from Belgium. (NB: “Tortilla chips” in Europe otherwise means either Doritos or some other disgusting knock-off with an even worse-tasting nacho cheese powder smeared all over them; hence my jaunt to the upscale “Alma”).

I arrived home, anxiously chopped some tomatoes, and spilled the contents of the package into the square Tupperware container that doubles as my mixing bowl. After stirring it up, I was instructed to chill the concoction for 30 minutes in the fridge “to allow the flavors to blend properly.” There was no way on earth I would be waiting 30 minutes to eat that salsa.

I did, however, decide to alter the recipe to my liking. You see, I feared the possibility that a packaged dry good might skimp on the spiciness factor, and my suspicions were heightened when I saw “jalapeño peppers” at the very end of a long list of spices in the package’s ingredients. Indeed, that’s no place on the list for such a vital ingredient. Fortunately, at Alma I also happened upon a small can of jalapeños. When I opened the can, I was a bit put off by the contents: sliced carrots and jalapeños. Examining the can more closely, I saw it had apparently been imported from Mexico. Not able to think of another country I'd rather trust with the jalapeño than Mexico, I grabbed one of the carrots and popped it into my mouth. The jalapeño flavor was true to its name, albeit with a texture I was more used to with green beans or corned beef and cabbage. But the spice was right. It brought some good heat, this perhaps owing to the fact that my spice tolerance was likely, shall we say “out-of-practice,” after four months in a country that, for all its wonderfully delicious cuisine, simply doesn’t do much with spicy. I dumped the can into my salsa, mixed it up, and enjoyed a unique carrot salsa al fresco, the back of my head – as is its habit with salsa and Thai food – sweating profusely with approval.

If you will allow me a brief postscript: I can only hope this might serve as an example to my other dear readers who have not yet thought to send me anything resembling salsa (you know who you are). It’s really hard for me to imagine how strained our relationship must be to warrant such an arrogant level of neglect. But alas, there is still time…