Cuban breakfast

We survived Highway 126, dropped out of the mountains into the desert, and pulled into Cuba.

First stop was water at a convenience store. Michele, eager to get to Chaco, suggested Circle K coffee and danish. Tempting, when you've driven on a glorified cattle path for two hours on an empty stomach, but no: The Del Prado Mexican Restaurant next door called to me.

Maybe it was the "cafe" sign over the door. Maybe it was the motorcycles and cars parked outside. It looked good. At that point, for all of us, a guy selling sandwiches out of cooler by the road would have looked good. But the deal was sealed when we opened the door to chatter and country music. This was a lively local spot, and trust the locals for a good breakfast. Later, a state trooper came in -- even better.

The proprietor, a cheerful Latina woman, served the boys' hot cocoa with extra whipped cream. They ordered french toast and hash browns, but Michele and I, we had had to have something smothered in green chiles -- eggs for her, a burrito for me, both of us passing on the posted daily special "Menudo (tripe) with posole." We let out audible sighs after our first sips of coffee.

We departed for Chaco in considerably better spirits.