About Pork Recipes 101

Why I started Pork Recipes 101

It started with a burnt batch of chorizo. I was trying to impress my abuela’s old friend at a family gathering, and the smoke alarm went off before the pan did.

She just laughed, handed me a fresh onion, and said, *'Mija, if you can’t fix it, you can’t eat it—but you can always start over.'* That’s when I realized I’d spent years copying recipes without really understanding them.

This site is for anyone who’s ever stood in the kitchen wondering if they’re doing it right. You’ll find recipes that work—tested twice, sometimes three times—along with the little tricks that turn good into unforgettable. No fancy techniques, no pretentious language.

Just food that tastes like it came from someone who actually cares.

Meet the founder

I learned to cook standing on a stool in my abuela’s kitchen in McAllen, Texas, where the air smelled like cilantro and the stove was always on. She’d watch me measure the salt, then nudge the pan toward me and say, *'Now taste.

If it’s not right, add more.'* I burnt the first batch of refried beans so badly she made me start over—while she sipped her café con leche like it was nothing. That’s the lesson I never forgot: cooking is about fixing, not fear.

The only tool I still use from those early days is my abuela’s cast-iron skillet, the one with the warped handle she swore was ‘just right.’ It’s got a dent from when I dropped a pot of beans in it (long story), but I won’t trade it for a new one.

It’s seen more failures than successes, and that’s why it’s still here. Some things can’t be replaced—just fixed.

The dish that changed everything was my dad’s ‘perfect’ brisket. He’d spent hours rubbing it down, letting it rest, and then—*poof*—the bark fell off in one piece when I tried to slice it. He didn’t yell.

He just handed me the knife and said, *'Next time, let it rest longer.'* That’s when I stopped guessing and started timing. Now, I measure everything twice, even the ‘feel’ of doneness.

I have a habit of tasting raw meat. Not the ‘just to check the seasoning’ kind—full bites, like a kid sneaking a taste of the sausage before it hits the pan. My abuela caught me doing it once and just shrugged.

Now, I do it in front of guests and call it ‘quality control.’ If it doesn’t taste good raw, it sure as hell won’t taste good cooked.

‘Cooking is about fixing, not fear.’

My abuela, after I burnt the first batch of beans

Meet the mascot

The first scribble happened on a napkin at a diner in San Antonio, where I was waiting for my dad to finish his shift. I’d just realized my pork carnitas recipe needed a mascot—something that looked like it belonged in a kitchen but wasn’t trying too hard.

The napkin version had a pig with three legs and a chef’s hat that looked like a lopsided crown. My dad took one look and said, *'That’s your abuela’s cat, not a pig.'*

The drawn version came later, on my iPad during a rainstorm. I gave the pig four legs (two hidden under a smock), a proper apron, and a whisk that doubled as a tail.

The whisk was the key—it made it look like the pig was stirring something, even when it wasn’t. My neighbor, who’s an artist, laughed and said, *'Now it’s just showing off.'* But I liked it. It felt like it belonged here.

The final version lost the whisk-tail (too busy at small sizes) and gained a spatula for a snout. The smock stayed, because it’s the only thing that makes it look like it’s *doing* something.

I named it *Chon*—after the Spanish word for pork, but also because it sounds like ‘chón,’ which is what my dad calls me when I’m being stubborn. It’s stuck with us now, even when it’s just a tiny logo on a recipe card.

What I promise you

This site is a promise: every recipe here will work the first time you try it—or I’ll tell you exactly how to fix it. No vague instructions, no ‘to taste’ without a guide. If I say ‘medium-rare,’ I mean it.

If I say ‘rest for 15 minutes,’ I’ve tested it that long (and longer).

How I create a recipe

A recipe starts in my kitchen, usually at 3 PM on a Sunday, when the house is quiet and the stove is free. I pull out the ingredients, read the method once, and then—*only then*—do I turn on the heat. The first attempt is always the messy one.

That’s the point. I take notes on what went wrong, what tasted off, what needed more time. And if it’s *really* bad? I eat it anyway. Waste not, want not.

The first test: hands-on

The first stage is all about the basics: searing, browning, layering. I use a meat thermometer for everything—no guessing. For pork chops, that means a 145°F internal temp, no exceptions. If the pan isn’t sizzling by the time the first drop of fat hits, I add more oil.

If the crust isn’t golden in 2 minutes, I turn up the heat. The only rule? No rushing. A good sear takes time, and if it’s not happening, I’ll tell you why.

The fix: patience and adjustments

If the crust falls apart or the meat’s too dry, it’s not the end. I adjust the method: more sugar in the marinade, a longer rest time, a lower oven temp. For example, my first attempt at pulled pork took 8 hours and tasted like sawdust.

The second time, I wrapped it in foil at 275°F for 6 hours—*that’s* when it worked. Every ‘fix’ gets written down. That’s how you learn.

How a page gets onto this site

Once a recipe works, I write it down while the kitchen’s still warm—notes scribbled on a legal pad, crossed out, rewritten. The second draft cuts the fluff: no ‘cozy kitchen’ descriptions, no ‘this dish will transport you.’ Just what you need to know.

Sometimes a recipe sits for months before I publish it. That’s how I know it’s ready: when I can make it blindfolded and still get it right.

Write to me

I love hearing about your kitchen wins—and your disasters. Did a recipe work the first time? Did you burn the garlic like I did? Did you invent your own fix? Send me your stories. (And if you’ve got a question, the contact page is the place to ask.)

Thanks for trusting me with your stove.

—Guadalupe