A few years ago, me and a friend were getting pretty sick of the New England weather.

We get our fair share of sunshine up here, but only for about three weeks out of 52.

So after one particularly wash out summer where the sky barely shifted from its regular

grey tone, we decided on a road trip to alleviate the rain-soaked misery.

We didn't have a destination in mind as such, just a direction.

South.

As far as south as we could possibly go without having to buy ourselves a Spanish phrasebook.

About a fortnight in, we'd made it all the way down to New Mexico.

I'd enjoyed the BBQ in South Carolina, relished the peach cobbler in Georgia, but nothing

compared to the food in New Mexico.

I thought I'd be eating good Mexican food back home, but I came to realize I'd been eating

lies.

Turns out the closer you get to the border, the better the food gets.

Mexican food isn't all about spice, either, although that is a big part of it.

But even then it's not that bear-mace kind of burning hot that we might associate with

it.

There's tangy, fruity salsa made from pineapples.

Not to mention the smoky flavor that Ancho chili imparts to dishes, but I'd had grass.

We'd been so charmed by New Mexico that instead of rolling through it into Arizona like we

planned, we decided to tour a little more of the state before leaving.

This meant we rolled down dusty roads, visiting little cowboy towns and Antajito joints along

the way.

...