Mrs. Renfro's

By now, everybody knows salsa has overtaken ketchup as America's national condiment. It was inevitable; even in X-treme new colors, there's something quaintly 19th century about ketchup, like Corn Flakes and Quaker Oats. Tomatoes, vinegar, corn syrup and salt? It sounds like something your Montenegrin grandmother would spread on your chest when you had a cold. The postmodern era commanded us to broaden our horizons; whereas the British looked to India for culinary salvation, our own answer came from just south of the border.

But which one to choose? Ketchup was easy; you'd no more depart Heinz than spell it with a C. But salsa comes in a dizzying array of forms, from rough-cut peppers, onions and tomatoes tossed with cilantro to something resembling Campbell's tomato soup concentrate, produced by everyone from multinational conglomerates to the taqueria down the street. This is supposed to be about enhancing the quality of life, not adding to its pressures and uncertainties. Whether you're an occasional buyer or a daily user, you need a brand you can rely on to deliver an optimal salsa experience every time you open the jar. Look no further than Mrs. Renfro's.

While not as fussy and obsessive as pepper sauce connoisseurs, salsa fans can have very particular ideas about what makes for the best bowl. The ideal consistency, featured pepper (or chile, if you want to get technical about it), presence of beans and/or corn and hotness are all subject to debate. Still, certain standards apply. Esoteric flavors (smoky, tart, sour) can be fine on occasion, but they're neither as versatile nor as durable as a staple needs to be. You want a salsa with all three tools — chip dipping, soup seasoning and scrambled eggs — and one you won't tire of, leaving yet another jar half-finished and forgotten in the darkest corner of the fridge. Also to be considered is availability; the best salsa in the world does you no good if you can only get it in El Paso.

Again: Mrs. Renfro's. Small chunks of onion, tomato and jalapeño are suspended in a tomato base that integrates the component flavors without adding excessive tanginess. The consistency is just right to pour smoothly from a wide-mouth jar, yet cling well to a corn chip or quesadilla. Whereas the high water content in a rough-cut salsa can make for rubbery eggs, Mrs. Renfro's blends effortlessly in the pan. It comes as hot or as mild as you like — but of course, traditional salsa picante is only the beginning.

The extensive and imaginative Mrs. Renfro's product line offers salsas for every taste: green, habanero, chipotle corn, garlic, even peach. This broad diversity within a single consistent style allows for seamless flavor rotation for variety's sake, as well as infinite combinations (peach with habanero. Trust me). Jalapeños are available whole and sliced, in addition to nacho cheese, barbecue sauce and a range of hot and mild relishes — all distinctively Renfro (fresh ingredients, well-balanced flavors), all sure to satisfy.

Mrs. Renfro's may not have achieved the overwhelming market saturation of a Pace or an Old El Paso, but this is no fly-by-night operation. Helmed by Mrs. George Renfro in Fort Worth, Texas, Renfro Foods is one of the nation's largest family-owned and managed salsa producers, and its No. 1 source of chow chow (the southern relish, not the dog). In fact, once you're familiar with the jar, you'll start to see it everywhere — at health food stores, in supermarkets, at the corner bodega, on a friend's table. You can buy the Fros in all 50 states, but if by some chance you live in Guam, it's also available through the customer-friendly website. You're asked to order in multiples of four, but if you think about it, you should really be ordering eight.

They go fast.

There are few lives that wouldn't be improved through the use of Mrs. Renfro's salsas. These humble condiments may provide no solution to the global crisis of the day, nor delay for an instant the inevitable; but in these turbulent times, there is comfort to be found in the simple pleasures at hand. The song of a bird at the window. The laughter of a child at play. And ... what's this? Raspberry chipotle?

— J. Daniel Janzen (dan at clownyard dot com)