For the budget traveler, Salsa Golf is damn near impossible to avoid. It occupies a space in Argentina’s cheaper restaurants right alongside ketchup and mustard as the most misunderstood and mysterious of the triptych, sort of like the Holy Ghost if the triune God were a condiment rack.
I grew up in Minnesota during the last great wave of earnest and unhealthy casseroles, when 25-year-old mothers traded recipe cards at Welcome Wagon, and “salads” often contained no vegetables.
While not every household in my hometown defined “variety” by how many different dairy products could be worked into one hot dish, or had the audacity to name an admixture of marshmallows, dried coconut, and canned fruit cocktail a word meaning “food of the gods,” mine was, by these standards, the norm. My parents were college-educated, still bought music the day it came out, and even lived for years in Japan, but when it came to mealtime, they picked up where their own parents had left off.