Holy Mole.
Puebla-Style Fiesta Mole Sauce, pre-compost.
I've had some big kitchen fails over the years. Like the time I had my boss over for a Cajun-themed dinner, and the blackened chicken smoked us out of the apartment in the middle of winter. Or that first COVID Thanksgiving when we just wanted something to feel normal, and I had to throw out a whole turkey breast because the Pyrex dish shattered when I added chicken stock to it. (No need to educate me on all caps vs. lowercase Pyrex labels— I got plenty of guidance after the fact).
This year's fail cut deep. My Thanksgiving plan was to make turkey in a traditional mole poblano sauce, a nearly all-day, 30+ ingredient recipe. It was an annual tradition that I'd set aside the last few years but now it seemed like a good way to elevate the holiday that would just be me, my husband, and home-from-college daughter.
I was well prepared, for the first time having all the right ingredients with no substitutes — mulatto, pasilla, and ancho chiles; pepitas; tomatillos and a ripe plantain; piloncillo, for goodness’ sake! From 10am to 3:30pm, everything had gone beautifully according to plan. The turkey broth stage. The chile stage. The nut and seeds stage. The fruit stage. The seasoning stage. The thickener stage. Except, I ended up short on turkey broth by ~1cup. No big deal, I pulled some boxed chicken broth from the fridge, and finished it all off adding the chocolate and sweetener.
Look at that picture ↑. The mole was beautiful. It tasted divine. I’d made 2 gallons’ worth so I could freeze some and share some with friends. As it simmered, and the flavors settled into each other, I did some clean up. The cooking tragedy struck when emptying the last bit of chicken broth into the sink…and a thick goober of mold slid out.
“Um, what is that?” my daughter asked.
My brain was train speeding off a cliff. “Oh, that’s…that’s just sediment at the bottom of the container. That happens sometimes.”
“Is it ok to eat?”
“Yep. Yep. Yep. All good. It’s fine.” The water was running, but, good lord, the blob was stuck in the strainer and would not be ignored. “Didn’t you say you were going out for a walk with your friend? Go ahead, I’ll do dishes.”
Once alone in the kitchen, an unexpected calm settled over me. Because when it comes down to a choice between salvaging your culinary masterpiece and poisoning your family, you must carefully calculate the odds.
I jest. Instead, I sat quietly next to the vat of mole: a tragic hero on its deathbed. Then I climbed the stairs to tell Roger what happened. We held each other for a bit.
Had it not been for a late addition guest (a pilot friend stranded solo in VT), we would have settled for turkey sandwiches and our already-prepared Mexican-themed sides. Instead, I googled “fast mole recipe” and was served up a 20-minute mole recipe from Gimme Some Oven. It was brilliant, approximating the flavors using a combination of chile powder, cocoa powder, and almond butter. For broth, I defrosted and strained some chicken soup I always keep on hand for when someone is sick (and FFS, why didn’t I do that in the first place?). The resulting dish was quite good and made for a perfectly delicious main dish for our modest feast.
Had this happened several years back, my meltdown would have been epic (the Pyrex fiasco was not one of my finer moments). But 2025 has been a tiring year punctuated by family loss, the bittersweetness of empty-nesting, daily political outrage, and financial belt-tightening. A kitchen failure is small potatoes (of the seasonal mashed variety) amid an overflowing of blessings in my life.
It's always a good reminder to take stock.
But give it a sniff test before you use it.