When the Lord Smiles on You (And Brings Soup)

I’ve lived in New Mexico for years now. Long enough to know the smell of roasting green chile means autumn and that the line between red and green isn’t just about salsa—it’s about identity. Long enough to pretend I’ve tasted it all.

But that’s the thing about New Mexico. You never really taste it all.

This place holds onto its secrets.

It waits until just the right moment—until your guard is down, until your belly’s empty, and your soul is quiet—

Then the Lord smiles on you, and someone places a bowl in your hands that changes everything.

Last year, it was pozole.

Not the pozole you find at a chain or off some laminated menu.

This was the real thing.

Pozole with history. With lineage.

Pozole, made by my friend’s father-in-law—an old school Mexican, the kind of man who measures time by the slow dance of a simmering pot.

His skills? Learned not from books or shows or trendy food blogs,

but from Oaxaca, in the old country.

Where ingredients are respected, and nothing is wasted.

Where cooking isn’t a task—it’s an inheritance.

This man—quiet, steady, always working—has done more than just feed people.

He’s helped restore and preserve one of Albuquerque’s most beloved spots: El Pinto Restaurant.

He’s a steward of flavor and tradition who reminds you that real craftsmanship never needs to shout.

That pozole was a revelation.

Deep, layered, soulful.

A bowlful of memory, spice, and heat that reached places no therapy ever has.

And then, today, the Lord smiled on me again.

Same friend. Different bowl.

This time, it was Chicken Caldo.

No warning.

No occasion.

Just the quiet generosity of someone handing you a miracle in a paper bowl.

Now, if you’ve never had a real caldo de pollo—not the half-hearted version simmered in a rush, but the kind that takes its time—

let me try, poorly, to explain.

It’s not just soup.

It’s comfort liquified.

Chicken is so tender it gives up.

Vegetables that still taste like vegetables, not mush.

And then—the lime.

That fresh lime, squeezed just right, cuts through the warmth and lifts the flavor.

Like a prayer whispered into something sacred.

The taste?

I won’t pretend I can describe it.

All I know is that each bite felt like a home I didn’t know I missed.

I closed my eyes and sat still, and for a few minutes, I was in heaven.

I still haven’t tried everything New Mexico has to offer.

Maybe I never will.

But every now and then, I get lucky.

And in this place, luck doesn’t come dressed in fine linen or gourmet plating.

It comes humble, in a shared container,

from someone who learned to cook in Oaxaca,

someone who doesn’t care about Michelin stars,

but who knows that feeding people—truly feeding them—is one of the last honest things we’ve got left.

So I sit.

I eat.

I give thanks.

And hope the Lord sees fit to smile on me again.

By Kyle Hayes