Southwestern breakfasts are a way of life, and I’ve become an addict. Warm tortillas or sopaipillas, burritos stuffed with scrambled eggs, potatoes, bacon or sausage, avocado, black beans, red beans, all splattered with green and red ‘Christmas’ chile sauce made from the hottest New Mexican varieties; and not forgetting huevos rancheros in its myriad manifestations. I make these things at home as well as most, if not all, the cafes and restaurants in Santa Fe. But they remind me of English breakfasts too! With Britain’s reputation for bland food, that must sound a bit far-fetched. But I remember English breakfast, a morning ritual for the working class, a weekend ritual for the rest of us. It was a piece de resistance: fried eggs, back bacon (so good) and/or pork sausage, Heinz baked beans, a mushroom, well-fried sliced tomatoes, and buttered toast galore. And this of course with a cup of strong Typhoo tea. I think I’ll open an English/New Mexican breakfast joint.
Last week I was in a bind about my job. Some things that shall be nameless happened, and I didn’t know whether I should resign or not. In my lunch hour, I stepped out into a beautiful blue day, still chilly but exhilarating. I followed my feet as they led me to the library. Perhaps my wise friend would be there. When I turned the corner, there he was, sitting outside on a bench in the sun, eating his lunch! Coincidence, timing? Everything and everyone is connected, has a vibration. He looked up from his peanut butter sandwich and said ‘Hello.’ I sat down beside him, somewhat reluctantly, knowing he was a man who relished solitude. He was taking a break from his daily writings. “I don’t know what to do,” I began. “Yes?” he said, and I saw his eyes registering that something significant was coming. “I have a problem at work,” I said, keeping it short. His blue eyes went into pondering mode, somewhere far away, and then he said: “But your writing is your work.”
And with that, he stopped my train of thought–such an apt description: a train with carriages (thoughts) linked one to another, all speeding along until the train (the mind) stops at the terminus. I laughed out loud and got up, wanting to leave him in peace after his simple revelation. Money had been a part of it; being professional another part. But he was of course right: my work is to write.
I walked into the Georgia O’Keeffe museum last Wednesday to start work and was greeted by ‘shhhh!’ from the guard at the door. Annie Leibovitz was being interviewed in the video gallery for Radio Cafe by Mary-Charlotte. Meanwhile, the lobby filled up slowly with local press, all silently waiting. Around 9:30am, Annie appeared and stood by the entrance to gallery 1. She was no more noticeable than the director of the museum, the curator, and the fifty or so reporters gathered to hear her words. I was by then at the front desk, witnessing the adoration of a celebrity. Santa Fe had been abuzz with her arrival, with the touring exhibit of her book, Pilgrimage. She was at the O’Keeffe museum because she took photographs of Georgia O’Keeffe’s casita abode in Abiquiu. The director spoke, very simply and eloquently; the curator spoke, also very eloquently. Annie, looking almost non-descript, wearing a black shirt, took up the refrain without noticeable transition from patron to artist. She clearly loved New Mexico, the landscape, her visit to O’Keeffe’s home–where O’Keeffe painted, almost blind, until her death at 98. Annie moved me to tears, just as she said she’d been moved to tears. She meant to play down her celebrity; she was in a place she considered beyond the reach of stardom or pretension. She was sweet, unassuming, humble. Hard to imagine she had photographed the Queen of my country, tiara, robes and all that goes with them.