It is your medicine.

It is the cure-all that warms your bones and mends your heart, more chicken noodle soup than chicken noodle soup.  It is memories of a kitchen filled with the scent of cooking pinto beans, a counter coated in flour as your roll out one fresh tortilla after another.  It is the taste of good Mexican beer and lively conversation on your tongue.  It is the feel of the desert in your bowl, a treat so little appreciated beyond the borders of your realm. 

You grind your red chile pods, already softened from a long soak in warm water, and run them through a sieve until you are left with nothing but a velvety red liquid to fill your soul as it fills your bowl.  Although you will later spoon beans into your bowl of chile, you take a moment to enjoy the simmering treat at its best: hot on the stove, a fresh tortilla dipped into the pot to scoop up the ruby liquid. 

You take one bite, then another.  The spiciness hits your tongue first, then the earthy sweetness of the chiles.  The steam from the pot washes over your faces, coating it in the soothing smell of a New Mexican home--your chile, your beans, your tortillas all cooking on the stove to create a rich perfume of the southwest. 

It is home.  It is healing.  It is the desert.