There are days when New York City is particularly unforgiving. Days when commutes are long and choked with people. Days when the wind whips around buildings like a freight train and blows your umbrella in half. Days when cabs splash you with puddles of dubious composition as they drive past. Those are the days when I miss certain niceties about New Mexico, which for better or worse, is a place where people will still hold the door for you and smile at you without asking you for money or directions.
Those are the days when simmering a big pot of red chile to pour over things feels most imperative to me. And, because my obsession with breakfast becomes increasingly intense with each passing weekend morning, this particular giant pot of red chile was meant for huevos.
