“In Mexico, they say hay sol para todos — there’s sunshine for everybody.”
Salsa Queen likes to remind people of that truth. To her, the saying isn’t just a folk phrase. It’s proof that even when you arrive in America with nothing — no diploma, no English, and no plan B — there’s still enough light for those willing to work until their hands ache.
Her story begins in Monterrey, Mexico, where she grew up close enough to the U.S. border to catch American TV. “I always wanted to be here,” she recalls. “I would watch the movies and be like, I want to be there.” At 17, she crossed with her parents and younger siblings on visitor visas. They stayed.
From Expired Cheese to Costco Shelves
The promise of America wasn’t instant prosperity. Her parents worked midnight janitorial shifts at Smith’s. Sometimes they were paid in expired food. “They will come home with a garbage bag full of bread, cheese, and bruised vegetables,” she says. “We would just cut off the green part of that cheese and eat the rest.”
Three decades later, Salsa Queen’s jars now sit in those same Smith’s stores. “The world really turns around however you want it to turn.”
“Nobody Had Ever Asked Me That”
Life in Utah wasn’t easy. With no high school diploma and a heavy accent, she married young, twice, and raised seven children largely on her own. “I lived out of food stamps, Medicaid, the church, food bank,” she says. “For as grateful as I am for that, I didn’t come here for that. That wasn’t a lifestyle that I wanted to teach my seven kids.”
The turning point came when she met Jim, who would become her husband and business partner. He asked her a simple question: What would you like to do?
“Nobody had ever asked me that,” she says. “Growing up in Mexico, the culture is very abusive — mentally, emotionally, physically. I thought I was worth nothing. So when he asked me that, I was like, wait, I can do something? You believe that I can do something?”
Her answer was clear: “I want to make salsas.”
The $500 That Changed Everything
They started small, selling jars on Facebook and making parking lot exchanges. Her first big step was selling at the Wheeler Farm Farmers Market. Mentor Jorge Fierro advised her to play it safe and bring only 50 jars. She brought 100.
“In two hours we were sold out,” she says. “I remember having those $500 in my hand and looking at Jim, my husband now, and thinking, I can make a living out of this. I had never had that much money in my hand that I had made. It was such a proud, humble moment.”
That day, Salsa Queen was no longer just a nickname. It was a future.
No Plan B
From her Magna kitchen, she and her seven kids made, packaged, labeled, and sold every jar. Friends who dropped by were quickly recruited. “We have to put food on the table. We have to pay bills and we all need to help,” she says.
There were setbacks. A mango-pineapple salsa spoiled too quickly on store shelves and got her kicked out of a Park City market. She had to repay $600 — money she didn’t have. “When you have to support seven kids and you’re just starting, $600 is $6,000.” But her consistency paid off. Customers kept asking for her, and the store eventually invited her back.
Through it all, she had one rule: no escape hatch. “I didn’t have a plan B. I only had a plan A,” she says. “I put all of my eggs in there, including my house, including everything, because I had to make it happen.”
Learning to Let Go
As demand grew, Salsa Queen faced a new challenge: stepping out of her own kitchen. For years, she refused to let anyone else cook the salsa. “We Latinos are very proud of our food. You don’t trust anybody,” she admits. But Jim reminded her: “The day that you’re not making the salsas is when you’re going to start becoming successful.”
It was painful at first, but she trained others carefully until they could make the recipes with the same love and care she demanded. “When you make things with love, it shows,” she says. If a batch carried bad energy, she threw it out and started again. That devotion still drives her team.
A Name, A Symbol
Her sugar-skull logo carries personal meaning. Her first child died of leukemia, and the image honors Día de los Muertos traditions. “This represents my family, my love, my culture.”
At her citizenship appointment, when asked if she wanted to change her name, she didn’t hesitate. “Salsa Queen,” she told the officer. Today, it’s her legal name.
Sunshine for Everybody
From farmers markets to Harmons, Smith’s, and Costco, Salsa Queen has grown into a household name in Utah. But for her, success is more than shelf space. “When people locally buy my salsas, they’re not buying the salsa,” she says. “They’re buying the dream. They’re buying the American dream that if she did it, so can I.”
That dream doesn’t end with her. She views her kitchen as a stepping stone for others. “When people come to my kitchen and they’re working there for a while, but they have their own dreams, I let them go with a lot of happiness in my heart, because I can’t wait for them to build their own dreams.”
From expired bread in a Smith’s bag to salsa on Costco shelves, her story is a reminder that the American dream is still possible. It requires risk, grit, and relentless belief. And for Salsa Queen, it comes back to that saying she grew up with:
“When the sun comes out, it’s not only shining on you. It’s shining on all of us. There’s plenty of room for all of us to shine.”
