Chilaquiles verdes
Full recipe: https://mandokaplaceresculinarios.com...
Going through a broken heart is like making chilaquiles, according to Mrs. Marta's inventions. Five feet five inches tall, wrinkled, and with more gray hair than zest for life. Her bitterness rubbed off on some, but her antics didn't break the strong barrier of my peace of mind. Then I stared at myself and said:
Break into pieces like a corn tortilla, fake smiles, wipe onion tears, repeat. Keep your head high, shoulders back, act—and blend—with confidence, repeat. The salsa was too spicy, too salty, or your relationship is no longer working. Because good chilaquiles require a particular seasoning, honed over time... but the next time you make them, don't let your guard down, and above all, don't get your hopes up. Because history repeats itself; just as it does with toxic romances.
Mrs. Marta spoke like a witch, and her thoughts seemed far-fetched to me. All I thought was that living without dreams condemns you to a life without love and without good chilaquiles. I prefer to dry my tears, put on my apron, and cook with the hope of succeeding this time. And the same goes for broken hearts. Dry your tears, put on your dress, and go out with the hope of succeeding this time.
Video music by Yann Tiersen
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