De-Mystifying the Salsa Lady

            There’s something about summertime mornings in Eugene that makes me — morning curmudgeon and all — happy for no reason. On a regular Tuesday morning, I would grudgingly get out of bed, throw on running leggings and a sweater, and burn my tongue on the coffee from my travel mug as I clumsily pushed my way through the junk to sit down in my car. But on this Tuesday , I throw my covers off, eagerly egging goosebumps to pop out of my skin. The few cool minutes of the morning are refreshing and fleeting, and I eagerly shower, don a fully composed outfit, and plod outside to greet my worthy steed.

            A steed in Eugene Oregon is not a horse, but a bike. I cruise from my house near the University on my pink and purple “Hard Rock Specialized”, pedaling slow enough to breathe through my nose but fast enough to feel a breeze. A mere fifteen minutes, and I reach my destination, armed with my uncharacteristic good spirits. The Eugene Farmers market! A place I have been before, a place where I know people, a place where I know exactly what I want.

            Before heading to the farm stand with fresh purple garlic and pattypan squash, I finally plucked up the courage to go and ask the salsa lady why she puts her face on the label of all of her salsas.

            “I wanted to make sure everybody knew that it was made by a real Mexican lady,” she says, in perfect unaccented English. She’s wearing a baby pink top, adorned with small cloth roses. It reminds me of ads for authentic Spanish fiestas in New Mexico. Underneath, she wears cut-off jean shorts. She looks exactly like she does in the picture on all of the tubs of salsa in front of her: long brown hair, bright white teeth surrounded by big, red lips. Her eyebrows are neatly groomed and she is smiling. “Salsa Garcia” is what she calls her product line. Her full name is Patricia Garcia Rogers, and though she calls herself Mexican, she quickly and honestly notes that she’s actually from “Mexicali” — on the American side of the border.

            Garcia put out samples of salsa in small plastic cups as we talked. Eagerly, I picked up the salsa verde. In high school in New Mexico, there was a burrito and taco shop that my friends and I would go to after class got out. They had a fresh salsa bar, and I began a lifelong habit there of eating salsa straight. No chips, no taco, no tortilla. As Garcia’s Salsa Verde hit my tongue, I wondered where she bought chiles in a place so stereotypically non-diverse and generally spicy-averse as Oregon.

            “Oh, usually Cash and Carry,” she says, casually. “Because I make such big quantities, it’s really hard to go organic.” It’s funny that she brings up the organic issue without me even asking. She has obviously been asked about the sourcing of her products before.

            Salsa Garcia is smack in the middle of the market. To her left, a jewelry crafter waits patiently as a few people mingle and peer at her silver and glass bracelets and necklaces. To her right, a woman selling blueberries and nothing else deals with a line of customers, the ones in front quizzing her about the specific varietal of berry, harvesting procedure, and carrying containers. No line moves fast at this market. It’s a place to ask questions, to let your eyes wander, to run into people that you know.

            I spent $7.50 on a tub of Salsa Verde before proceeding to buy my veggies and explore the few places that offer samples multiple times. I fork over the cash, more than happily, because Garcia is honestly, calmly, and systematically trying to play for profit in the real capitalistic world. She’s selling her ethnicity, selling her small-town-ness, selling her beauty. But, she’s also selling some salsa that is particularly tasty when it’s accompanied with sautéed pattypan squash, fresh garlic, and farm-raised scrambled eggs. And because she’s situated in Eugene, where all of these things are available, it makes her product totally compatible. You have to be flexible in your moral standards somewhere, even in the so-called hippie haven of liberal Eugene.