My stomach hates me.

I just ate my third meal of New Mexican food today. I think this might be the end. So if I don't post again, you know I exploded here in Espanola, leaving blood, guts and guacamole all over Steve's kitchen.
But today was another fantastic one. I came to Santa Fe three years ago for a wedding and ate at the Plaza Restaurant, and since then I've been fantasizing about the diner's huevos rancheros. We went today, a knot of fear in my stomach as I thought it might not be as good as I remembered ... and it was better. What a meal. And Eleni, who loves food as much as I do (believe it), was there to share it.
And we saw a cat riding a dog. And Lyle Lovett. Eleni was more impressed with Lovett. Me, with the cat riding the dog.
And the Georgia O'Keeffe museum (my favorites were the blue and white Pelvises) and wandering around the plaza. For some reason we bought fajitas.
There's something wrong with the two of us. A weakness for sour cream, I think.
And then some coffee and on the road. We drove to Los Alamos and back down, and saw views that made me say, "Fuck the Grand Canyon."
Seriously.
Back to Steve's, where we drank beer on the back porch, read and waited for Steve to get out of work. Then to a fantastic restaurant -- more food, delicious and now I feel disgusting. We got the grand driving tour of the town, saw where some religious sect lives, a housing project where someone got their head chopped off, a church built in the 1700s.
This is an interesting place.
AND I convinced my half-Greek darling to put off our departure until tomorrow night so we can go to the county rodeo.
SO STOKED.
And now, to explode.