Living in New Mexico was a unique experience. The Indian Pueblos, savage Spanish Conquistadores and the foreign white folks. About as diverse as one could find and oh there was a sprinkling of Africans. Then there were the sub cultures in all the groups. There were the Penitente’s back in the mountains, the loud boisterous rancher, the slow moving paisian, gang bangers and Indians in all sizes and shapes.
On the weekend, drive to one of the neighboring Pueblos for fresh baked Indian bread. The Indians had been baking in these mud ovens for centuries and ground the grain by hand. It was as primitive of bread as one could get but oh was it delicious.
The other thing was the Indians would set up shop in the ditches on roads near their homes and cook fry bread. Early Sat. morn, driving down the road would be a bread shop. An Indian with a large cast iron pot over an open fire, sometimes propane burner, small tables for serving and a work table for kneading the dough. Mix up a small bit of dough, toss it in the boiling lard, turn it after rich brown. Lift onto a plate and drown it in honey. The mouth is drooling. Fresh hot fry bread, dripping of honey, supply your own coffee.
It was an interesting life the Indians developed to get away from the government control. Make some money of their own, have a bit of independence, extra money. It was also great for the tourists and the locals would make a day of it.