there's no such thing as perfect guacamole
but I've got a formula that'll get you pretty darn close
When I was a kid, after I’d read my way through all of Beverly Cleary’s fiction, I checked out her memoirs from the library. The second installment covers her life from college until she became a published author, and most of the details were too advanced for my elementary-school brain. But one story from its pages stuck with me.
When Cleary went to college in California, she lived with family friends in a house with an avocado tree. Cleary had never seen an avocado before, and once she peeled away the alligator skin, she went from curious to glutton, eating a whole one every day after school. She described how delicious they tasted — and how all her clothes were all the sudden too tight.
The cover of the book shows Cleary sitting on a railing, reading a book, and in my mind, I conjured an avocado tree to her right, just within reach. I imagined her reading and eating, simultaneous literary and avocado immersion. I was unconcerned with weight gain and wholly consumed with a the mystique around this prehistoric-looking fruit; if my favorite author was so infatuated with it, then I would be, too.
All these years later, I can’t eat an avocado without thinking about Beverly Cleary, and last week, I got to wondering what other stories about avocados might be out there for the telling.
In 1962, Associated Press food editor Cecily Brownstone wrote a short story, accompanied by a recipe, about guacamole. It starts off inoffensively, explaining that this “seasoned avocado dip” is now available in most states for people interested in “south-of-the-border” cuisine. But that’s where sanity ceases to prevail.
In the story, Cecily shares how a chef whose guacamole she admires goes about his business. First, she writes, he “molds” it onto a platter, and “then he makes the avocado mixture look like a porcupine by inserting corn chips all over its surface.”
As if that isn’t upsetting enough, Cecily presents another way to serve her favorite Mexican dip: in a “set” mold, which is at least presumably not shaped like a spiky rodent. That’s the only upside; with this variety, Cecily suggests serving “pickled mushrooms, boneless sardines, whole canned pimientos, watercress, endive and crisp rolls.” The recipe for the avocado-based potion that goes inside the mold calls for water at two different temperatures, gelatin, mayonnaise and celery.
Cecily’s recipe was syndicated nationally, presumably leaving all of America smearing guac on sardines, and then, from what I can tell, there wasn’t much chatter about it in the mainstream press for another decade.
In the Tampa Times in 1973, guacamole resurfaced in a form much closer to what’s deemed acceptable today — but served as a garnish on a bacon-encrusted hot dog. And about 20 years after that, in my parents’ kitchen, I was complicit in continuing the tradition of refusing to get out of the way of one of the best-tasting pieces of produce on the planet.
That’s what’s so confounding about all of this: The avocado, in its purest, pitted and sliced, Beverly-Cleary-in-California form, is basically a dessert. It tastes like butter, if butter grew on trees. It’s not spicy or bitter or confusing in any way, and yet for decades and decades after avocados became available in the average supermarket, people insisted on mixing them up with dozens of ingredients that did nothing but dull their wonder.
One of the first times I helped make guacamole, at some point in the mid- to late ’90s, my mom told me how avocados weren’t on grocery store shelves when she was growing up in the Midwest. She was still learning to cook with them, and a good friend of hers had just shared a recipe for guacamole — which contained shredded cheddar cheese, hot sauce and sour cream.
I had no complaints at the time, but at some point in my teens, after sneaking enough bites of unadulterated avocado, I began to wonder about the point of all the extra fuss. I cut the sour cream in half, then in half again, and at some point I was brave enough to leave it out altogether. I went through the same process with the hot sauce and the cheese; heat can come from the garden, not a glass bottle, and a fruit that’s packed with 20-plus grams of fat has no business being infused with dairy.
Now, from the moment it gets warm enough to sit on the back deck every spring through the last mild day of fall, I make guacamole almost every week. And over the years, I’ve come up with a pretty successful baseline formula. It’s not quite a recipe, because it’s done by eye and taste and preference, and it’s sometimes reliant on what’s already in my fridge.
The only rule is that nothing should ever overshadow the avocado.
simple enough guacamole
Here’s what you need to have on hand: avocados, a red onion, a serrano pepper, a clove of garlic, cilantro, a lime, salt, pepper and cumin. If you’re missing an ingredient or two, don’t sweat it. Guacamole is good without cilantro, or using a lemon instead of a lime, or a white onion instead of red — but I do very much believe it’s at its best with all of the above ingredients.
The key to this method is the preparation; proportions are up to the individual. And the first rule of preparation is that guacamole should have texture — but texture should come from the avocados, not everything else, which is why I am a vocal advocate for microplanes. The only ingredient you should be chopping is the cilantro; when it comes to the onion, garlic and serrano, use a fine grater. (And then use it again on the lemon for zest.) That way the flavors are more evenly distributed throughout, and you’re not going to wind up with an extra onion-y bite.
I use either a fork or a potato masher to get the avocados to their proper consistency, making sure to leave chunks rather than pulverize them to oblivion, and then a wooden spoon is all you need to get everything else incorporated.
I usually use 4 avocados, which should yield enough guacamole for four-ish people to graze for an hour or so. My other (rough) proportions are as follows: ¼ of a red onion, ½ of a seeded serrano pepper, 1 small clove of garlic, about 1 tablespoon of chopped cilantro (leaves and stems), the juice and zest of ½ of a lime, ¼ of a teaspoon of freshly ground pepper, ¼ of a teaspoon of kosher salt and ½ of a teaspoon of cumin. I think it’s a good starting place, and you can adjust to your own tastes. Have the whole soapy cilantro problem? Leave it out — but I’d recommend dialing back the citrus a bit and dialing up the pepper slightly. Not up for spicy? The hot pepper is an easy omission.
Once you’ve got a batch, taste it! On a chip! Then adjust as you see fit.
Excellent 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻