Harvest Moon—My dad is a chiropractor by day, but give him enough down-time and he becomes a Zen farmer. A very small-scale one. When the weather's right, my father loses himself in a walking meditation among the vines of his heirloom brandywine tomatoes, his lemon cukes and his purple, honey-sweet figs. On the other side of the yard sits my mother's plot, tumescent with flowers and a hedge of rose bushes that reaches up to the mountains. How fitting that my sister (an apprentice indoor landscaper) will be married in their backyard next spring, between those two patches.

Here’s one way to tell if you’re New Mexican, through and through. When Hatch flooded, did you have nightmares about chile dearth? Thought so.

Breakfast is still the most important meal of the day. Every morning, I see people ingesting a superb variety of bizarre breakfast foods during their commute, from alien blue goop-filled toaster pastries to cold egg rolls and, in my case, the occasional bowl of leftover tofu helper. It’s a start. And so imagine my delight upon learning that the Calico Café, a hot breakfast nook (lunch and dinner, too), has relocated from far away Corrales to north Fourth Street. Anything “charming” needs a manly-man perspective, so I decided to bring my buddy Ike for some company and the occasional grunt or scratch.

Nursing It Back

Little Sir Dan, sat with his hands, aloft over keyboard with a frown. Along came his boss, and with a crumpled note he did toss, asking “Hey, we doing a Chowtown?!”

View in Alibi Chowtown