My Tiny Vegas: Las Vegas, New Mexico News, Stories, Photographs, and More!

Kevin Christenson: Alcohol Artist

by Birdie Jaworski

Kevin Christenson at work!/Birdie Jaworski

Two handsome men, their chiseled young faces grinning with anticipation, poke each other in the ribs as they swap drinking glasses, one full, one empty. Bartender Kevin Christenson, 25, doesn't notice; he's pouring me a pint of Amber Bock, carefully tipping a tall, tapered glass against spout to provide the proper proportions of foamy head and hoppy drink. The cunning men laugh. One of the men points to his empty glass.

"Hey, Kevin! Where's my drink, man?"

"These guys keeps screwing up the drinks on purpose," Kevin groans. "Last week one of them messed around with me. This week it's the other."

The men explode in laughter, their ruse detected. An older man in an orange Bronco's shirt guffaws. He has his arms wrapped around his girlfriend - also in the Bronco's best. His round glasses accentuate his eyes, giving him the appearance of a sports-friendly owl. He slowly squints and raises one-half a bushy mustache in preparation to deliver what I know is gonna be a whopper.

"Hey. My name's Philip Ledger."

Everyone laughs. Everyone but me. I'm odd girl out, the stranger in this Cheers-like establishment where everyone knows your name, and what probably isn't your name.

"Hey. I'm just kidding. My name's Richard Flores."

More laugher.

"Hey. Okay. I'm kidding. My name's Gene Gonzales."

I can't tell if Gene is his real name, but I'm gonna go with it.

"Okay, Gene. Tell me about the Trading Post Saloon. What makes it a great bar?"

Peyton Manning runs across the wide-screen TV, his number 18 rippling with muscles as he catches a Hail Mary pass. Gene keeps one eye on the game, half an eye on his girl, half an eye on me.

"It's always funny in here. Kevin's great. We like to tease him. He's a great sport."

Kevin chuckles and raises his eyebrows. He wears a brown baseball cap with an embroidered Icelandic flag and a Wayland Baptist U Pioneers t-shirt.

"Shhhh! Don't tell anyone I'm wearing a competitor's shirt," he laughs, referring to his day job as Pitching Coach of the Luna Community College baseball team.

The scene continues to play as burly bikers take pool cue to table, as cowboys saunter in for a brew, as college boys take seats at the bar and order heaping piles of fries drenched in red and green, bartender the brunt of half the jokes, giving as good as he got. A stready stream of orders keeps Kevin on his toes. Regulars order bottles of Miller Light, draught pints of Bud and Michelob, and Kevin's signature drink, a "Wisconsin Lunchbox," an odd-sounding combination of beer, orange juice and amaretto. Kevin catches me making a squished up face.

"I swear, it's good. It's great. It's popular around here. I make a lot of lunchboxes."

It's Sunday, just a few days before the election. I take a long, cool swig of my beer and giggle as "Gene" cracks another slightly off-color joke. Kevin wipes the counter, bits of blonde hair escaping from his cap. He moves like a boxer, his hands continuously in motion - a jab to the right for a shot of whiskey, a hook to the left for a Corona. He moves with the ease of someone who doesn't chase time, someone who lives in the moment.

"I learned how to tend bar here," Kevin explains. "I took a server's class, got my license, and learned as I went. I've been here at the Post for just over two years. Been in Vegas for four years. The people are great here and the tips are good. I'm a night owl so it works for me."

In addition to the Lunchbox, Kevin makes a mean Washington Apple, a shot-like mix of Crown Royal, Apple Pucker and cranberry juice. He considers his margaritas a house specialty. But most people order beer or a Jack-and-Coke, or don't order at all since Kevin knows what they like. Happy Hour these days means a pint with a side order of political discussion - most of it pro-Obama.

"I've served delegates here," Kevin says. "Law enforcement dudes, a lot of lawyers. Sometimes there are arguments, but it's all in good fun. I'd have to say we get more Democrats in here, but everyone's welcome, no matter what they are."

"I'm actually voting for Sarah Palin," cracks Gene.

Located next to the Hillcrest Restaurant, the Trading Post Saloon feels homey, feels the perfect mix of nieghborhood fun and danger. Neon signs hang on the old-fashioned wooden walls. A collection of vintage trains rests over the picture window lining the front of the establishment. Wood and chrome compliment the rows of hanging wine glasses - it's a he-man's land, reminiscent of smoking rooms, of a Captain's lounge. It's the kind of place locals love and visitor's want to experience.

One of the Handsome Duo listens as Kevin talks. He takes a drink of beer, seems to ponder a deep question, then points out that Kevin's single, that ladies can check him out Sunday, Monday, and Thursday nights at the bar.

"That's Jordan Prado, bartender at Dick's. I think he's the best in town," laughs Kevin. "He's single, too. You can quote me on that!"

Kevin Christenson at work!/Birdie Jaworski

The Footsteps of Time: Clayton Lake State Park

by Birdie Jaworski

Twelve miles north of a sleepy Northeastern New Mexican town, the invisible ghosts of majestic beasts roam the outskirts of a manmade lake. 100 million years ago, claw-toed and sloe-eye monsters jockeyed for position here, fought for tender greens, for succulent flesh. The guttural cry of flying reptiles - wingspans as large as 40 feet across - echoed against an ancient seabed.

Driving through the burg of Clayton, you may think you travel through an area worn and heavy, an area still smarting from the ravages of the dust bowl, from the decades later when newly-paved Interstates stole drivers, asked them to forget the quirk and charm of small-town America. But the land holds deep secrets, holds the memory of lush tropics where dinosaurs once lived, and at Clayton Lake State Park, holds over 500 viewable Early Cretaceous footprints.

"I lived here my whole life and never did go see them tracks," muttered Clayton resident Joseph Warner. He stood with his back to Shrine of the Testaments, an art gallery featuring biblical history, primarily the oil paintings of the late Jan Maters, a Dutch-born, classically-trained artist. "I do believe humans and dinosaurs existed at the same time five thousand years ago. I believe in the bible."

Most scientists tell another story, however, one of a shallow oceanic strait that connected the Gulf of Mexico with the Arctic Ocean. Called the Dakota Group, the rocks formed along the Western shore of this seaway are rich in the most ghostly remnants of the dinosaurs - their tracks. These footsteps are made even more eerie by the fact that no dinosaur bones have been found in this part of the Dakota Group. The shallow imprints carry the only evidence that dinosaurs lived at all in this region.

The most common tracks at Clayton Lake, and indeed throughout the "Dinosaur Freeway", are broad, three-toed tracks. The largest of these tracks is about thirty centimeters in length, from the tip of the middle toe to the rear. Similar tracks have been found in Brazil and in England. The tracks were made by ornithopod dinosaurs, large herbivores. Ornithopod means "bird-feet," and as one stares at their fossilized footprints, one can't help but laugh at the thought of huge thick-skinned beasts running on what might have looked like chicken legs.

In the rolling grasslands of the extreme Northeastern corner of New Mexico, near the carve of wheel rut into hill that marks the Santa Fe Trail, an earthen dam was constructed in the 1950s across Seneca Creek that resulted in the formation of Clayton Lake. The excavation of the spillway, and a flood in 1982 that swept away a thick layer of silt from the spillway, uncovered an unexpected bonanza of dinosaur tracks. Researchers from every corner of the globe raced to the tiny town of Clayton to study the fantastic find.

Today, the tracksite, with over five hundred dinosaur footprints, is one of the world's best-preserved and most extensive. A sheltered gazebo and boardwalk were built along the trackway, with comprehensive information about the kinds of dinosaurs who lived here so long ago. At least eight different varieties of dinosaurs left their marks on this ancient mudflat, evidence any visitor to the State Park can see.

The best time to see the tracks are in the two hours before sunset when the sun casts low shadows against the white-rocked spillway, giving them added dimension and contrast. The park is often silent, empty, its simple wooden boardwalk belying the significance of its famous footprints. As one walks around the tracksite, one sees a cornucopia of definitive tracks, unambiguous monuments of the incredible creatures that once owned the land.

"I can't believe no one is here," mused young mother and Raton resident, Theresa Lovato as her first-grade son ran ahead on the boardwalk, eager to see the dinosaur tracks. "It took us a few hours to get here, but this is worth it. I can't believe no one else is here," she echoed. "This is one of New Mexico's finest gems. I remember seeing the tracks a few years back in High School. We took a fieldtrip out here and our teacher pointed out a place where you could see not only the footprints but a track made by a dinosaur tail."

Lovato's son stopped cold as he spied his first set of prints, a series of five deep three-toed depressions facing the lake. He squatted low to the wood walkway and leaned his buzz-cut head over the tracksite in order to get a better look.

"Look! Look! Dino tracks!" He yelled, but kept his eyes on the rock-hard mud.

Clayton Lake contains examples of parallel trackways, areas where the dinosaurs may have ventured north together. At Mosquero Creek, an arroyo-surrounded site south of Clayton Lake, at least 55 trackways of small ornithopods have been found, all parallel and all trending towards the north. The "Dinosaur Freeway" may have been just that - a migration route spanning north and south over hundreds of miles of forgotten shore. Visitors share in the ancient energy, imagine the ghostly cold-blooded creatures as they let the sun set over the spillway.

"Dinosaurs. Dinosaurs. I don't know what God had in mind when he created those dinosaurs," laughed Joseph Warner. He flicked the ashes from his cigarette into the street. "I think if they were alive today, we'd keep them in a zoo. They wouldn't have their freedom. Maybe it's better they died off a long time ago."

Pride in Piñon

by Birdie Jaworski

Juanita Herrera sifts piñon.

If you can't pick who you want for President, you can always pick piñon.

An old woman squats close to the ground next to a short, squat pine. She wears a thick cabled sweater to protect her from the wind cascading across Starvation Peak. Her hands scurry through fallen needles, sifting for tiny elongated seed pods, dumping them by small handful into an antique five-gallon bucket made of tin.

"I shake the branches to collect the piñon," explains Mrs. Jane Yazzie, 83, of Bernal. "This is the way I learned from my Navajo grandmother. She learned how from her grandmother. Our family has picked piñon for centuries."

Mrs. Yazzie picks nearly fifty pounds of piñon each fall in the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving when the threat of icy roads keeps her tucked into her warm trailer home. She roasts her piñon the old-fashioned way, in an oiled cast-iron skillet stuffed inside a fiery horno.

"I grind the pinon after they cool off," Mrs. Yazzie says, her hands mimicking the motion of a pestle against mortar. "I grind them by hand, the way you should. It helps press out the natural oils in the nutmeat. This is how you make the very best biscochitos," she continued, referring to New Mexico's state cookie, "with a flour made from freshly ground piñon."

The piñon trees that dot our landscape live modest, long lives. They don't attain great height like California's giant sequoias. They don't shed a multicolored garment of jewel-toned leaves in the fall like New England's stately maples. Piñon - at first glance - appear to be lowly, humble, simple scrub conifers whose home between the desert and the high places speaks of solitude, whose gnarled limbs speak of nature's mercy. But the little trees have produced fuel, building materials, food, and medicines that enabled pre-historic Native Americans to establish their cultures on the Colorado Plateau and to survive into the present as the Hopi, Zuni, Pueblo, and Navajo.

"My grandmother told me stories about how our people on the reservation would pick piñon and store them in clay jars. They would dig pits in the ground and bury the jars to keep the piñon cool and safe. It's what got them through winter." Mrs. Yazzie breaks into a large smile and lifts a flecked brown pod to her mouth. She crunches into the shell, pulverizing both meat and protective coat. "I eat the whole thing. The shell has minerals and keeps you regular," she laughs.

Piñon seeds have sustained the people of New Mexico, Colorado, and Arizona for thousands of years, through rainless summers, through harsh snow-laden winters. The Northern Paiutes stored piñon in grass-lined pits, saving them for days when fresh grains and meat were scarce. The Navajo mashed the meat into a rich, oily spread like peanut butter to be eaten on hot corncakes. And local, Northeastern New Mexican tradition, holds stories of whole families and villages living on piñon alone during the dusty, drought-laden days of the dust bowl.

"I was a tiny girl, maybe five years old," reminisces Mrs. Yazzie. "I remember eating piñon for days. For weeks. It was all we had. We kept these big sacks filled with the last piñon harvest. My mother used to tell me that we were like piñon. We sometimes have a hard shell around us when times are difficult, but our insides are always sweet."

Mrs. Yazzie moves to another tree, this one at least a foot in diameter. She spreads a worn baby's receiving blanket under a promising bough and, standing as tall as she can on the tips of her toes, begins to shake. A cascade of nuts and needles rains onto the blanket, pelting the thin pink fabric with nature's morse code, with the sound of hail across the grasslands, the flail of hooves against canyon floor.

"Nature makes the same sounds over and over," Mrs. Yazzie sighs. "To me, the sound of piñon hitting the ground is one of the sweetest sounds in the world."

She drops her arms to her sidesm eying the piñon's trunk. Short white hair stands out in tufts around her wide face. "You can tell the age of a piñon by the width of her belly. One foot across means that she is over 200 years old. Some of the piñon in this valley are nearly 1,000 years old. They have seen many, many things. I would not like to see everything these piñon have seen," she says, glancing at Starvation Peak, a thin, towering mesa where the Apache once tricked a group of Mexicans in 1837, leaving them to starve to death just out of reach of the piñon.

It takes three growing seasons to produce one piñon seed, twenty-six full months of work for the tree to sprout a new branch and grow the complicated prickly cones that house the seeds. Even though most people call them nuts, the protein-rich treats are the mature seeds of the piñon tree. Experienced pickers understand the cycle of good and bad seed years. 2008 has shaped up to be a bumper crop, with rich groves of piñon bursting with nutty promise across the forests of Northeastern New Mexico. Bumper crops rarely follow bumper crops according to scientists who study the species. The reasons why one year is great and another is slim are mysterious, and may have something to do with weather patterns as well as the tree's need for a solid carbohydrate base in order to create the cones.

Juanita and George Herrera of Las Vegas understand what it's like to follow the whim of the piñon tree. They sell seeds sealed in clear plastic baggies underneath a blue and orange Denver Broncos tent set up at the intersection of Mills and Grand Avenues.

"We pick at Rowe Mesa and at Mineral Hill," George, who works in the forensic department at the New Mexico Behavioral Health Institute, explains. "There's a ton of people picking this year. It's a good, solid crop this year."

The Herreras began selling pinon as a side business in 1998, and now have customers who drive from Raton, Tucumcari, and even out-of-state to buy their piñon in the fall. Rows of packaged piñon wait for hungry buyers, each labeled with a dollar amount written in black marker.

"I love being in the mountains," Juanita, a health worker who cares for the disabled, raves. "I just love it. It's my favorite part of picking piñon."

"I love being in the peace and quiet," adds George. "I love seeing and hearing the jets that fly overhead. That really tells you how quiet it is in the mountains, when one of those jets flies by."

Juanita and George pick piñon from morning 'til mid-afternoon on off-work days, from the beginning of the season in early October through November, until the first heavy snowfall cradles remaining pinecones in winter's blanket. Lifelong residents of Las Vegas, they both remember the traditions surrounding piñon from childhood, remember entire families carrying picnic hampers filled with good things to eat into the forest, running from tree to tree with child's pails, filling them with carfully collected seeds.

"It's still the same today," says George. "Families still pick together. It's an important piece of our life here. What's funny is how the technology hasn't changed. There's still no perfect way to pick piñon. You either have to shake the tree, pick by hand, use a dustpan and brush, or vacuum the branches. Nobody has a good method. You always get the piñon dirty," he continues, describing the bits of plant detritis and needles that come with the pods.

"We use a big screen to sift it," Juanita demonstrates, hauling a two-foot-by-two-foot handmade wooden frame with an inset mesh screen. "You pour the piñon in and shake to sort the nuts from the dirt."

George pours a bag of piñon into the shaker and points while Juanita uses both arms to shake the load. Needles and tiny bits of bark and dirt collect at the bottom of the tilted screen, while the larger nuts remain toward the top end.

"It builds big muscles," she laughs.

Juanita roasts her piñon in a microwave, the modern version of the horno. "It makes it easier to watch. They never burn this way," she says. "The stove takes too long and you risk burning it. But in the microwave, it always comes out perfect."

Piñon adds a delightful crunch to biscochitos and other cookies, to salads, cereal, granola, and provides a thick, oily base for pesto. One of the rare foods that can be used in most salty, sweet, and savory dishes, it is a well-rounded addition to every pantry. One serving of shelled piñon offers 14% of your daily fiber needs, 6% of your iron needs, and 6 grams of protein. In fact, piñon contains the most protein of any other seed or nut. To protect the nutritive value of the nuts, they should be kept in-the-shell in a cool, dark location. Shelled nuts should be stored in the freezer to keep the natural oils from going rancid.

A crowd of customers leans over the Herrera's piñon. A gust of wind crosses Mills Avenue, carries dust and bits of stray paper, but the seeds stay protected by the heavy canvas tent. A tall blonde woman from Texas selects two large pound bags of roasted seeds. She pats them lovingly as she reaches for her wallet.

"The best piñon comes from right here. I try to buy it every year from George and Juanita. I'm from New Mexico but live in Texas now, and you know what the two things I miss most are? Green chile and good roasted piñon."

Trail of Chicos

The road to San Augustin passes nothing, nothing but a pistol-pitted sign welcoming travelers to county road C-24, nothing but dry wind and green-gold prairie, the asphalt twisting in deference to property line and gulch, pockets of fattened cows standing bored sentinel. I drove slower than the speed limit, my son riding shotgun, and watched the sun fall from my ears to shoulder in the rear view mirror.

A coyote stood at the edge of the road as if waiting to cross. Rough skin rose under her coat, a crisscross of scars and wayward tufts of fur. She looked like she knew something interesting about us, and I turned my head to keep her in vision. We watched each other until she became one with her fleas, a mere dot on the horizon, until my car edged past the Las Vegas Land Grant and into the Tecolote Land Grant at the Charles R Ranch. The late September sun framed her body, hung low in the sky, orange and swollen.

Louis counted two mobile homes, an ancient crumbled adobe, a simple stucco residence, another, until they disappeared behind us, until we turned with the road again and the plains turned to steep rock valley. I slowed to ten miles per hour, kept the car from sliding too fast down the canyon wall.

"Mom, we're almost here. Look, see the river?" I followed the line of his pointed finger across scarlet land to an oval protrusion of sage and rock and sunburnt clay, the river nestled inside, and listened as he described the kind of thing only thirteen-year-olds notice.

"This is so New Mexico. It's a chile canyon."

I let the car coast as Louis rolled down his window, took deep breaths of rich valley air. "Yeah? Why is that?"

"The clay is red, and the plants are green. This is a Christmas canyon."

Louis was right. The land spoke of chile and reflected sun, all the shades of ochre and sage an artist can create, shades beyond any palette. Juniper and piñon broke the sun. The land spread in lumps among deeply irrigated soil, some places covered in mold-colored lichen, some places layered in gold and black dirt beneath a constant wave of tall grass.

A lone red-tailed hawk led the way, swooped high above the rocks then fell just inches from the road. His talons extended toward invisible prey. He was missing two flight feathers and the remaining ones were ragged and broken. The wind from his journey seemed to signal a temporal change. As we crossed the Rio Gallinas a herd of goats splayed from canyon wall to acequia. We left our world behind, our world of stock market bailout, of hungry consumer, of constant cell phone interruption. We traveled back in time.

San Augustin hides behind a swayed hogback ridge, a collection of adobe homes in various states of repair and a simple steepled church dating back centuries. The village looks tired, looks sleepy and forgotten, but looks are deceiving. A handful of men and women still work the land in the old ways, still follow the river of weather and moon in a pageant of goat, pumpkin, and chico. The land still breathes.

"I was born and raised in that house over there." Huero Gonzales sat in a pitched-roof adobe home, his back ramrod straight against a wooden kitchen chair. A ristra of ceramic red chiles dangled near his head as he pointed toward a simple whitewashed home across the dirt street. "I'm 74 already. I have eight children, twelve grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren now."

Huero motioned for us to follow as he walked through his house to the back door. A beautiful framed photograph of the San Augustin church taken in the 1970's graced the living room wall, paying homage to the community of faith that gave the village her name, gave her a refuge. Huero smiled as he told stories of the decades before his birth, stories of Apache raids against the village, when men and women of the village would gather at the sound of the big cow hide drum and hide on top of the church's exposed vigas, ready to dump steaming hot water on the marauders.

"Now the church is only open one day a year, San Augustin's Day, the 28th of August," explained Huero's wife of 51 years, Eva Gonzales. "Huero built the sacristy of the church with his brother. Before that, people were going through the windows and stealing the saints."

Huero's back door opened to a yard resplendent with summer's final bounty. Rope strung from tree to porch to tree, every linear inch holding golden ears of roasted sweet corn whose kernels would become the northeastern New Mexican delicacy called "chicos." Some say the word chico comes from a Spanish word for something tiny. Others say it comes from the Pueblo people, comes from a similar-sounding Tewan word that means corn. Chicos have graced the tables of New Mexicans for centuries, sometimes slow-cooked in stews alone, sometimes with beans and pork and spicy chile.

Thousands of ears dried in Huero's backyard; thousands of hand-shucked ears first baked in a wood-stoked horno. The smell of fire and corn mixed with Huero's cigarette as he sat at a picnic table. The strings of chicos rustled in the wind, reflecting the afternoon sun.

"I only went through the eighth grade. I graduated from the IC School. I went one year over there." Huero bent low to pet his dog, Bruja. "I would walk on the weekends, walk all the way to McAllister Lake with the family goats and cows. It was my job to watch them. I used to saddle the horse, get the goats, while my mother made cheese."

The valley came alive as Huero spoke. I could see him chasing heifer and bull, collecting wood for fire, spending early mornings in prayerful walk past the church, courting a beautiful young village woman who would become his wife. Bruja seemed to grin, too, seemed to appreciate the stories of Huero's loyal working dog, a blue-heeler named Blue.

"I got me a job, four dollars a month cutting logs, not with a chain saw, a hand saw," reminisced Huero. "My hand would come out shaky. The next year I got a job catching the minnows in the river. I put some bread in the water, and I would scoop them into a crate. That was money in those days. I worked a team of mules."

Huero recounted the small jobs, the big jobs, the ways he kept his family fed during difficult times. He delivered mail to the villages of Trujillo and Maes. He began driving a school bus, taking children from the valley into town, a job that would remain his for thirty-five years.

"Everything is easy now," sighed Eva. "Those days, not easy. Everything is so easy now."

Huero jumped up to stoke the horno's fire. He added fresh pieces of dried wood. Flames licked the interior roof. Louis sat at the edge of the picnic table, his eyes riveted on the burning embers, his attention fully on Huero. The wind gusted, lifting the strings of chicos, shaking them like ghostly rattles. Huero pumped water into waiting buckets of fresh corn, then filled the horno with the soaked ears. He patted fresh clay made from his own earth around small cracks in the oven, sealing it shut with a broad, flat stone and more clay.

"The corn needs to sit in here overnight. In the morning, you can't believe how good it all smells. I make hornos for other people, and hope that more people in town call me to make them a horno. It's a dying art. Not many people can make them the right way, the way that will last." Huero squeezed his clay between his fingers, demonstrating the properties of his home-gathered earth. "If I make a horno in town, I have to haul the clay out there. This is the only place you can find clay like this."

The corn sizzled as the horno's flames leapt around the stalks. Smoke filled the backyard, the sweet smoke of harvest, of hard labor's pleasure, of traditions still strong and true.

"We used to wash the clothes, carry water from the well, we didn't have water inside or nothing. My mama, if we forgot something she would tell us you can't forget. You don't forget your rear end, because it is attached." Huero laughed, slapping his butt in a playful manner. "Life was so hard then. It's hard now, but I remember when it was much more difficult."

My son steadied a bag of chicos on his knees as our car wound up the canyon. Our clothes smelled like fall, like horno smoke, like Huero's words of cigarettes and memory. We lurched forward, in time, in space, until San Augustin disappeared behind us, her fertile valley awash in mystery, in the fading fire of Indian Summer.

Please see my photo album detailing my trip to San Augustin to visit Huero and Eva Gonzales.

*********

A note from Birdie:

I've started a biweekly magazine celebrating the arts, cultures, and communities of Northeastern New Mexico. The name of the magazine is GALLINAS.  "Trail of Chicos" is a story from the current issue. Each issue is 24 pages long, tabloid size, on thick white bookstock paper, and includes at least three stories written by me, with my original photographs. I have several other wonderful writers - including my business partner, Elizabeth deMare - profiling our beautiful corner of the world in the magazine as well. The magazine will soon be increasing to 32 pages and will include even MORE stories by me and others!

Subscriptions are $100 a year, for 26 issues, mailed to your home or business address. If you are interested in subscribing, please email me (littlebirdie@mac.com). Of course, if you live in Northeastern New Mexico, you can find the magazine at most stores, hotels, and restaurants as well as the NM State Visitor's Centers - for free.       

Roasting Green Chile

For more stories like this, please consider subscribing to GALLINAS Magazine, or picking up your free local copy in Las Vegas!

Charles Brommer's chile roaster/photo by Birdie Jaworski

My lungs filled with the rich aroma of roasting green chile as I waited my turn at the gas pumps.  Gabriel continued filling the tank of a tired elementary teacher. She slumped in the seat of her beat Ford Escort, head propped against the seat rest, as if five minutes of fuel could hopefully mimic twelve hours of good sleep. I realized she wasn't sleeping; her heavy eyelids meant rapture.

"Cómo estás, Birdie! You smell the chile? It's finally Fall." She reached outside her window and waved a plastic bag of cinnamon-laced biscochitos my way. I accepted a cookie, took a bite.

"Hey, thanks. I love chile season. I can't get enough of that beautiful smell."

The end of September in New Mexico means chile, means waxy green pods stuffed in burlap bags at the local grocer. New deep-red ristras can be seen hanging from balconies and porches, and men man caged machines where the green chile harvest is turned over shooting flames to produce a blistered skin.

Chile peppers have been a part of human diet in the Americas since at least 7500 BC, perhaps even earlier. Archaeological evidence at sites located in southwestern Ecuador show that chile had already been well domesticated more than 6000 years ago, thanks to its self-pollinating nature.

Chiles are considered a true superfood. Rich in vitamin C, a good source of most B vitamins - especially vitamin B6 - they also rank high in potassium, magnesium and iron. Health researchers believe that chile can help keep you cancer-free, can help reduce the amount of insulin required to lower your blood sugar after a meal, can help you shed unwanted pounds. 

Chile is so important to New Mexico that it's been declared the state vegetable, even though scientists call it a fruit. Most historians credit Juan de Oñate, the Spaniard who founded Santa Fe in 1609, with bringing cultivated chiles into our area. He spread tiny dried chile seeds he carried from Chihuahua along his route, leaving them with native farmers, with mission monks, with the hope he would one day return to vibrant fields of fragrant spicy peppers.

The old monks roasted chile in the same manner we do today – over fire with a continuous flipping and tossing of the pods so that they are evenly blackened. You can see these roasters at various locations around town – at Lowe's, at Wal-Mart, in a backyard on 5th Street where a quiet man smiles at me as he turns his homemade wire machine. Sometimes I pause and watch him, watch his wiry arms load new green chile into the 55-gallon basket turned on its side, watch him close the hatch, rotate it over a fire fueled by canisters of propane. He concentrates on the chile as it spins, his brown eyes closed tight as if his meditation coaxes them to life, to the daily communion of red or green we take at each meal.

I watched a tall man in black jeans and a baseball cap spin green in front of Lowe's on Mill Street. He chatted with a customer as the broken black skin fell from the wire basket into a trough below the flames. Charles Brommer spoke to me as he fiddled carefully with the cage, made sure his customer's chile burned even and true. He shrugged his shoulders when I asked him how long he cooked chile.

"Just a month. It's my first season. It's a good job, a job where you know you're doing something important."

He laughed, as if roasting chile were actually a small thing, something unimportant. His blue cap shaded his eyebrows, made him seem mysterious, a chile Ninja. But his dark eyes gave away his emotion, his connection to these long green pods.

"I love the smell. On a good day, you can smell it all the way up at Alltel."

I let my grin speak for me, let him know I loved his work, loved the way the sky rose with the scent of our ancient land. He smiled, too.

"I've lived here my entire life," Charles explained, "but I've never tired of this smell. I think I like green chile with enchiladas best. I also love it with eggs. I just don't like it too hot. Medium is best for me."

Charles cut open a burlap bag and hoisted the contents into one of two waiting cages. Lowe's customers walked past, most stopping for a moment to watch, to share a smile. Charles carefully adjusted a gas nozzle until hot flames covered the bottom of the machine.

"I let the machine do all the work," he mused. "There really isn't a trick. Basically I heat the chiles until the skins are burnt, then I turn off the heat and let them slow-cook."

Charles' customer waited patiently on a wooden bench while his chiles roasted. Joachim Romero pointed to the gray smoke as it wafted past us. He wore a dapper striped shirt tucked into pressed jeans, a man reverently dressed for the important yearly sacrament of collecting nature's finest.

"I've been living here for over twenty years, but my family was originally from Las Vegas here," Joachim said with emphasis. "My grandfather, José Leon Romero, helped drive the first cattle to this area and was one of three men who manned the Ilfeld store. I like chile real hot. I like it on everything. I eat it all three meals. There's no way I can eat any food at all without chile."

We waited as the chiles' skins puckered and sizzled, enjoying the aroma, enjoying the simple pleasure of sharing a sacred tradition. Charles brought the machine to a stop. The rotating basket shivered silent, its belly full, ripe with culinary promise. He emptied the chile into a waiting box lined with a heavy black plastic bag.

"I've roasted for folks from Colorado, Arizona, Texas - even a couple from Baltimore who never saw chile being roasted before," laughed Charles. He handled a scruffy broom and swept the small burnt skin peelings into a pile. "People use the roasted skins to feed their chickens. It helps clean them out and helps with laying eggs. I save these peels for anyone who comes and asks."

Joachim handed Charles a tip, then waved goodbye as he hauled his bag of blistered chile to his car. A fiesty crow hit the ground, gnarled feet extended, grabbed a smoldering piece of chile skin and charged toward the clouds. Birds don't carry the same sensitivity to capsaicin - the substance in chile that creates its heat - that humans do. Chile peppers are, in fact, a favorite food of many birds living in the peppers' natural range. In return, the pods' seeds are distributed by the birds as the seeds are passed through their digestive systems unharmed.

Charles cleaned the roaster in preparation for his next customer. The crow circled above us, his body bathed in evaporating smoke. Charles ripped open a new bag and the scent of freshly picked chile mixed with the remnants of the last roast.

"On a good day I make twenty dollars in tips. Like I said, it's a good job. Ah," yawned Charles as he adjusted the height of the flames, "it just smells so good."

Green Chile Sauce
Yield: Approximately 2 cups                Cooking Time: 20 minutes

1 tablespoon olive oil                     1 cup chicken broth or water
1/2 cup chopped onion                  1 clove chopped garlic
2 tablespoons flour                        3/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup chopped roasted green chile

1. Heat olive oil in a medium-sized skillet on medium heat.
2. Sauté the chopped onion and garlic in the oil. Add flour and cook
   for 1 minute.
3. Add all remaining ingredients and simmer for 20 minutes.
4. Pour over every meal, just like Joachim Romero!

Chasing the Hispanic Vote: UK Guardian video

Las Vegas is featured in a story at the UK Guardian site:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/video/2008/oct/02/uselections.new.mexico

Have you seen the new GALLINAS??

Click on the magazine cover to visit the NEW GALLINAS Magazine online! Now available at over 100 locations in Northeastern New Mexico!

Our first issue has stories by yours truly, Elizabeth deMare, Kevin Tracy, Barbara Tyner, Louis Jencka, photography by Sean Weaver, and poetry by Raquel Gallegos. Youth art by Lucas Vigil.

Our next issue features the theme of "Indian Summer." Look for it everywhere on October 8th!

Thanks,
Birdie Jaworski
Publisher and Editor

A Short Note on the Robertson H.S. Hazing Incident

I have received several hundred emails asking me about my opinions on the Robertson High School football camp hazing incident. This horrifying event has now made the national news, and people interested in moving to Las Vegas are terrified about their own children's potential eduation.

Last year, I taught 8th grade at Rio Gallinas Public Charter School. My eighth graders were terrified of moving into High School, terrified of the hazing they may endure as new High School freshman. When I asked Robertson officials about the truth of my students' stories, I was told that it was all local "urban legend," untrue, that hazing simply did not occur. Obviously that is not the case, and my guess is that the stories I have heard about hazing in recent years are based on some fact.

I elected to keep my own new Freshman, my 13 year-old son, out of the local High Schools, and am homeschooling him because of my concerns about Las Vegas' secondary school systems. I made this decision last year, months prior to the hazing incident. I know that there are some wonderful, incredibly dedicated and creative teachers in the High Schools here, and many of those teachers are good friends of mine. But overall, changes need to happen to make our schools safe, exciting, and academically challenging for all students.

I don't have anything else to say. It is a sad and unfortunate situation, one that did not have to happen.  Maybe this event will spur some needed changes.

You are welcome to discuss the hazing incident or any other Las Vegas issue in the My Tiny Vegas Forum - the link is on the right sidebar of my blog. I love Las Vegas, can't imagine living anywhere else in this entire world. I know that together we can make the changes that need to happen.

Singing You Home This Evening...

by Birdie Jaworski

I will read from my Avon Lady memoir tonight at Tome on the Range!

I live with two birds. Ramses the African Grey is a free-range parrot. He thinks he's a dog. He follows my dog Sissy around the house, perches on one leg at the edge of her dog bed, grooms her long white hair, shares kibble and milk bones under the kitchen table. My other bird is a perky sun conure named Sunny. She's a free range parrot, too, but follows my young boys through the house on some kind of Bird Planet intelligence mission, takes notes under lifted wing, looks like she sends secret messages home.

I don't clip my birds' wings. I rescued both of them, gave them good food and water, large cages to call their own, let their feathers molt and grow, spread and lift. They spend most afternoons singing back and forth, chewing, watching  crows steal trash from the neighbor's open bin. A good life for a bird. They don't try to fly away. My home is the only real life they know.

One afternoon I took a shower and put on my good pink dress. I sang sea shanties in the bathroom, applied mascara and dark cherry lipstick to match my chipped nail polish. I was making a kissy face at the mirror when it happened. My young son, Marty, screamed bloody murder, howled in pain and fright. I dropped my lipstick to the floor, kicked off my heels, ran barefoot outside in a pink tornado whirl of satin, saw Marty clutching his heart, staring at the sky, the front door open, only one grey parrot inside.

"Sunny! Sunny!" I grabbed my heart too, scanned the sky, didn't stop to ask what happened, started screaming for my spy bird at the top of my lungs. I stuck to that spot, kept calling, yelling, scanning, saw her resting at the top of a tall pine across the street. She looked tiny, a smudge of yellow against the blue heat of the sky, beak pointed west. She flitted down, soared toward the sky again, landed on another tree even further away. She's gone, I thought. She's heard the rumble feather call of the wild. She's gone. I turned around, took Marty in my arms, both of us crying, my mascara running from my cheeks to Marty's head.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay." I kept whispering nothing words over and over, wanted to calm Marty, to calm myself. "Hey, let's sing our birdie bedtime song, ok? Can you sing it with me? Maybe Sunny will hear it and come back. Ok, sweetie? Let's sing."

So Marty and I stood, arm in arm, staring at the sky, at the last tree where Sunny perched, stared and sang our hearts out in the one song we sang every night together, the Good Night song I learned many years ago while watching Lawrence Welk with my Gramma.

Good night, good night
And pleasant dreams to you
Here's a wish and a prayer
That every dream comes true

And now, till we meet again ...
Adios, au revoir, auf weidersehen ... Good night!

We sang that song a hundred times, kept standing and staring, singing until my voice grew hoarse, until the sun began to fall into the mountains, singing to the tree, to all the birds of the world. Marty took a deep breath and broke the circle.

"She's not going to come back. Sunny's gone forever." His body shook in grief, and I knew he was right, knew our bird friend would never return. But I took his hand again and held it tight.

"No way, man, no way. She's coming back. We have to believe it. She belongs to our flock, just like Ramses and Sissy, ok? Just like me. Just like your brother. Your dad. We're her family. And she'll come back. We have to sing her back to her bed. Let's sing it again. Just one more time, okay?"

That last time my voice nearly gave up, cracked with all kinds of pain, but I kept singing, soft and low, imagined champagne bubbles floating behind us, me in my pink tutu, my boy all wistful brown-eyed wonder like some Little Rascal, and as we completed the final "good night" we heard a familiar sound. Sunny. Perched near us, perched on top of the porch. She climbed to the edge, waited for me to walk to her, to stick out my finger so she could step up, and Marty and I carried her, sang her inside the house, to her cage where she snuggled next to her yellow blanket.

This Saturday night, let me sing you home. I will be telling stories of my life, of Las Vegas, at Tome on the Range. I will read from my Pushcart Prize-nominated memoir, "Don't Shoot! I'm Just the Avon Lady!" as well as from a new book, "Sleep is for the Weak." And I will read an original story I wrote about Las Vegas, about the places and people that make my heart soar as high as Sunny's jailbreak joyride. Many of you are named in my story, and in my heart. I love Las Vegas. Please join me in celebrating the love.

An Evening with Birdie Jaworski at Tome on the Range, Saturday, September 13, 6 p.m.

Taste the Town!

by Birdie Jaworski

Tiny Dancers at the 2007 Sabor de Las Vegas

Soft cocoons of blue and wilted yellow vibrate, collected together in a nest spun of capillary and experience. Scored into four equal segments surrounded by deliberate black void, Alex Ellis' encaustic painting, "Mystery Map #1," reminds the viewer of tired eyes, of internal organs fighting for direction, for space to expand. At once otherworldly and deeply intimate, Ellis' work examines themes of alienation, spiritual longing, interconnectedness, and the necessity of kindness.

"I've never thought of working this big," muses Ellis on the piece. "It's a quad of 12 inch by 26 inch panels - that's 12 square feet. I used seven pounds of beeswax, one pound each of damar resin and marble dust, and lots of cocoa, coffee, salt, chili powder, and ash. I'm very happy with it. It's fun to encounter, and after a few weeks with it, I find that it's very dynamic in the way it shifts depending on the light and mood of the hour."

Ellis' work can be experienced this Saturday, September 13, during his opening at deMare Fine Art as part of the fourth Second Saturday Artwalk. Coinciding with the fifth annual Sabor de Las Vegas, the event features dozens of galleries, restaurants, studios, and special events in a symphony of art, culture, and beauty radiating from the Old Town Plaza throughout the town's different art districts.

"We're trying to reach critical mass," explains MainStreet Las Vegas Board Member Roy Montibon, "especially for those people who want to make a trip into town. There are so many events that you simply can't see everything. It creates excitement. Each month it takes on a different flavor. We have more and more artists, galleries, and entertainers joining each month. There's a move to create an artist's coop. Once we reach a certain mass on Saturdays, it will spill into Friday nights, and people will come in from out of town and stay in one of our beautiful hotels."

This month's flavor is captured by the Sabor de Las Vegas, sponsored by the Old Town Commercial Club. Sabor means "taste" in Spanish. Local restaurants will set up booths under the Plaza's generous shade trees, offering seven "tastes" for a ten dollar ticket. Last year's bounty included plates of green chile chicken enchiladas, miniature meatball submarine sandwiches dusted with rosemary, rich chocolate mousse under dollops of fresh-whipped cream, artfully crafted tiny cakes, and delicate empañadas stuffed with piñon and pork.

"We have twelve restaurants participating in Sabor this year," explains event coordinator and Old Town Commercial Club member Tito Chavez. "This year we're having it in the shade of the historic Plaza Park. We'll have mariachis in the bandstand as well as popular singer Reynaldo Maestas." Chavez paused, a grin spreading from his mouth to his eyes. "And this year, we have something special planned - a salsa contest!"

The salsa competition begins at 12:30 p.m. Saturday after a half-hour registration for competitors, with categories for children, college students, adults, and kitchen professionals. Sponsored by Alta Vista Regional Hospital, the fiery contest is sure to be a crowd-pleasing hit, with budding Iron Chefs wielding knife and jalapeño in the hopes of winning a 50 dollar top prize.

"Everything has to be fresh, made on sight," says Chavez. "Bring your own ingredients. We're encouraging people to shop at the Tri-County Farmer's Market. Entrants will have just fifteen minutes to make their very best salsa. We're still looking for judges," he laughs, "so any adventurous folks can call me at Tito's Gallery if they want to taste test."

Visitors to Sabor de Las Vegas can work off their indulgences while taking in some of Las Vegas' artistic treats. The Las Vegas Arts District covers an easily walkable portion of the city - from the Railroad Depot where the horse-drawn trollies once collected tired train travelers, through the new 5th, 6th and 7th Street Art District to National and Bridge streets, ending at the Old Town Plaza. Many restaurants in both New and Old Town are keeping their doors open until 9 p.m. during the event.

Highlights of this Second Saturday Artwalk include the CCHP walking tour of historic Las Vegas beginning 10 a.m. Saturday at their offices on Bridge Street. Docents will regale partakers with both discussions on architecture as well as "this happened here" stories that will surprise and delight. Tomb on the Range is sponsoring a morning program for children called "The Dragon Wagon" with dragon tales, a puppet show, and crafts at 10:30 a.m.

"A cool thing that happens with the Second Saturday Artwalks is at some vacant buildings, owners are putting art in their windows," smiles MainStreet Las Vegas Director Cindy Collins. "We're trying to get more building owners to sign on. It makes the event even more special."

In addition to Ellis' "Inner Cartography" opening, artist Linda Wooten-Green will hold a reception for her new show at Traveler's Cafe, "Interlude of the Landscape," and WarDancer Gallery will feature tin artist Gene Gurule, whose expertly crafted mirrors and wall hangings reflect an elegant Southwestern charm and grace.

"As far as the Second Saturday Artwalk and the Sabor de Las Vegas, we want to encourage people to bring their friends and family into town, to drag people away from the TV set," says Montibon. "We see that people are having a really good time at these events."

"This is the way Las Vegas used to be when I was a girl," interjects Collins. "People used to be in the Plaza Park, smiling, having a good time. We need to come back to the heart of our city and gather as a community. Enjoy it. Sabor it."

Sabor de Las Vegas, Saturday September 13, 11 a.m. - 2 p.m. Plaza Park. Salsa Competition, 12:30 p.m., please register at Noon if you wish to compete. Call Tito Chavez at 425-3745 if you wish to judge the event or for more information. Second Saturday Artwalk, Saturday September 13, 10 a.m. - 9 p.m. For a complete listing of events, please see the posters around town or call MSLV at 425-2606, or visit www.mainstreetlvnm.org.