In February, 1990, Betty Lucero walked into my gallery in Albuquerque, N.M. She came in like a dust storm from Clovis, changed my displays, named my paintings and became my lifetime friend. Over the years, she introduced me to her Spanish family and culture. My life is enriched by this friendship.
I visited my friend and her family recently in Clovis, N.M. Her son, Eli Lucero, an artist in the kitchen, planned to cook a meal for my family and serve it when we arrived at 2 o’clock that Saturday.
I knew of Eli Lucero’s passion in the kitchen, cooking authentic Mexican recipes. I didn’t know he would tell the wonderful stories of his family as he served the food. That day was more than food; we were living the past from his family and culture.
One of the foods on the menu that day was his bread, cooked over pecan flames in a black iron skillet on his outside grill. This is one of his stories about the bread he served, a story about his grandfather, Antonio Salazar.
“El Cocinero del Campo”: Story told by his grandson, Eli Lucero.
They call New Mexico La Tierra del Encanto, the Land of Enchantment. But, for me, it has always been more than enchantment. It is survival, it is culture, it is cultura. It is the stories that smolder in the campfires of men who forged their way through grit, determination and fire.
And in those stories, in that smoke, one name rises again and again — my grandfather, Antonio Salazar, El Cocinero del Campo.
I pictured it as though I was there, in Sombrero, Vaughn, where the sheep camps scattered across the frontier. Dawn like a blade of light across the high desert, the bleating of sheep and the cold whistle of wind. Men waking tired, with dust in their throats and calluses in their hands.
My grandfather would dig the pit, lay the lumber and set the parrilla or the Dutch oven just so. And then the smell — smoke from mesquite and piñon, curling low, carrying the promise of warmth. In that smoke, I can almost hear the sound of bread rising against iron and flame.
They didn’t call him Antonio in the camps. They called him El Cocinero del Campo, the Cook of the Camp. He knew the fire like other men knew their wives. He could read the coals, judge the wood, feel the heat without ever lifting a hand. Into that heat he placed the dough, scored with his craft, sealed with patience and prayer.
Pan de campo. Field bread. Shepherds’ bread. The bread of survival, the bread of soul.
For in those rough gatherings of men, far from home, it wasn’t gold or railroads or politics that gave comfort. It was bread, pulled from the fire. Hot loaves torn open in rough hands, steam rising like incense. Bread that carried the taste of earth, smoke and labor.
With every loaf, he gave them more than food. He gave them belonging. Even in the wilderness, far from pueblos and families, there was cultura. There was memory. There was God.
Decades later, I find myself lighting my own fire. I feel the heat on my hands, smell the smoke in my hair and I didn’t know why I was so drawn to bread baked in Dutch ovens over open flame.
Until one morning, over a breakfast burrito and Guatemalan coffee, my uncle Benny, the son of Antonio, looks at me and says, “Did you know my father was known as the cook of the camp? He was known for making the best pan de campo in a Dutch oven over the fire.”
In that moment, everything aligned. The sparks, the heartbeat of history I understood. I had not been cooking alone. The smoke and the fire that calls me back to the parrilla, the dough rising in bowls on my counter, it isn’t chance. It is blood. It is memory. It is Antonio’s hand on my shoulder, guiding me back to the flame.
This is not just food. This is not nostalgia. This is cultura, the enduring culture of New Mexico. The Spaniards who came with sheep and song. The settlers (like my grandma Carmen) who plastered walls with blue clay dug from Sombrero soil. The men who laid rails across valleys and the women who raised families in adobe homes.
All of their lives, all who breathe in the bread. And all of this cultura is resurrected every time I kneel before the flame and place dough into the Dutch oven, just as my grandfather once did.
The sheep are gone. The camps are quiet. The frontier has changed. But the title remains. The honor remains. The name whispered through smoke remains. I cook with him still. I cook with El Cocinero del Campo.
Final brushstroke: Eli Lucero served our family more than food. He gave us belonging. He taught us about his proud heritage and we discovered El Cocinero del Camp in his grandson, Eli Lucero.
Send your comment to bettyslade.author@gmail.com.
Views expressed do not necessarily represent those of The SUN.
