Many rivers are borders and America’s border river is the Rio Grande. I hate that it is a border, I want it to be a connector, an artery. 
The headwaters begin in Colorado, my home. Yet be sure that the Pecos springing up in the mountains east of Santa Fe is a vital artery, the aorta, the “heart,” of what that river can mean and what is truly important to me. Along the tributaries of the Rio Grande grow the bosom’s fruit that is Capsicum, or chili peppers to those of you from lower elevations. 
This isn’t any bell pepper that you can find in a Kroger or Safeway. An impressive array of “heirloom” varieties grow in these inhospitable areas of high desert, scrub, clay, and sand. Will Rogers said that the Rio Grande was the only river that he knew of that was “… in need of irrigation.” The chile peppers from the Rio’s tributaries are special due to this type of inhospitable environment. While this rocky aridity might make for scarcity of product, it creates a plant that must put all of its energy into fruiting the best offspring that it can and the result is heavenly.



My first Green Chile exposure was less than ideal; living in a house with an old alcoholic, a young  meth addict with her kids, an another “gifted and talented” kid (Really we were at-risk youth who’s parents dumped us into someone else’s responsibility. We were one step away from juvenile hall.) and a black cat that would jump on my face in the middle of the night. 
The meth-head was a self-proclaimed cook - of food, I saw no evidence of drug production. And she kept going on about Green Chile. But I, like many, mistook Chile for “Chili,” the red and meaty sauce/soup/stew that I had come tho know in the midwest. Upon seeing the beige concoction flecked with green chile flesh, I recoiled. I’m sure that my face showed it, and ol’ methy two tooth laughed at me for being a flat-lander. She was right. I’m sure it was delicious, but I have no memory of it.