|
By chris Date: 2007 Apr 05 Comment on this Work [[2007.04.05.18.25.19580]] |
|
1. Here in New Mexico, chile is not to be confused with chili, see. There's some state law somewhere that says so. Besides, chile with an "e" comes mostly from south of here where a river flows through a rare rift valley rimmed by mountains that look almost black in the harsh sunlight against the blue of the sky and the water. The make the distinction clearer: The other kind comes mostly from that other state to the immediate right of us on the map. Especially good for cold evenings when you think Man, should the bayou be this cold? Good also for when you need something convenient to put in your mouth so it won't respond to jokes about dragging black men behind pickup trucks in the pines in the pines where the sun couldn't reach the soft needle- covered floor even if it wanted to. 2. Scene: Garduno's of Mexico, Montgomery Boulevard. Me: The red's good. Nice and hot. She: How could he have done that to me? Me: Wait. Maybe it's the green... She: I mean, he really sucks - even for an ex... Me: Uh huh. She: Why is he calling me now? Me: What? She: Could we talk about something other than chile? 3. "This is for the questions that don't have any answers," said Kid Rock a long time ago before launching into a song about topless dancers and midnight glancers, whoever they are. I personally haven't known too many topless dancers, or at least had many conversations with them that didn't involve exchanges of cash. What does all this have to do with chile? Absolutely nothing. Therein lies the connection. 4. When questioned about her memories of chile, my wife, who grew up in the South Valley at a time when indoor plumbing was something to feel proud about, had this to say: "It's not a memory - it was food." 5. Lost somewhere in the Bootheel, the border-crosser realizes he is so hungry he has stopped thinking about food and started thinking instead about places that would be good to lie down for a little while, maybe behind a large enough rock or maybe the shadow of that greasewood could hold him in dreams of his hita in her quinceanera dress just last spring so radiant so new to this vida so bright like the pods of chile verde his woman might place on the counter and slice into on a fall afternoon when the air is so still and perfect he finds he is afraid to move to breathe for fear of losing the moment and everything else. |