Reporter’s Notebook | Triple heat
By Nicholas House
Navajo Times
I haven’t been to the Gallup flea market in over 15 years. Not since I was about nine getting dragged around in the dust, trying not to melt into the ground, fighting my sister over nonsense, getting yelled at for crying for the strange animals (parrots, turtles, hamsters) for sale. And this weekend, I’m finally going back.
I know what’s waiting for me: wind, sweat, a sun that doesn’t let up, and, if I’m lucky, a boiling bowl of neeshjizhii, so hot I might just buy a pet parrot as a reward. No, I can barely take care of myself or plug my phone in at night, let alone take care a pet.
Because here’s the thing: we Navajos eat heat in the heat.
It’s July. The wind is full of sand. The Gallup flea market ground’s dirt, not pavement, but it still radiates like a slow cooker. And right in the middle of it all, we line up, no questions asked, for tongue-scorching stew, mutton that’s hotter than ‘aseezį́, and chile so aggressive it should come with a waiver.
And what do we chase it with? Not water. Never iced anything. No. We drink Navajo tea. Hot. Or coffee. Just to make sure the sweat keeps flowing.
It’s normal to us. Cultural muscle memory. A badge of honor, even.
I love our food. I’d defend red chile like it’s my little sister. But lately, I’ve started wondering how we collectively decided that summer was the season for molten stew. Somewhere along the line, we chose to treat July like a spice endurance challenge. Triple heat: outdoor temps, spicy chile, and boiling broth.
I’m not judging. I’m just saying––my 4/4 CIB might be under review for asking these questions out loud.
You ever bite into something so hot you have to blink real slow and look at the ground like you’re about to pass out? Shidáʼí Lamuel would say, “Don’t let ‘em bite cha.” But the triple heat does bite back. That’s kʼíneeshbízhii with extra Hatch on a windy July morning at the flea market, where you get equal parts salt and sand in your Styrofoam bowl. Bonus points if the coffee is black – turns your lips into rubber and your tongue into a cautionary tale of slurping and cursing.
But we do it. Over and over. Because it tastes like home. Because it’s what our grandparents made. Because it’s what we do.
I haven’t even stepped foot back at the flea market yet and I’m already sweating just thinking about it. But I’ll be there, driving through the dust in a single cab chidí with no A/C, to get there. Pushing triple digits on former Route 666, to make the good stuff: ach’íí’. Standing in line like everyone else. Shirt sticking to my back. Finger crossed they take American Express – arms crossed it doesn’t decline too. Wind blowing sand in my teeth. Ready to burn my taste buds for food stand delicacies, I haven’t had since I was a kid. I’m sure it’s luxury to hear “Order No. 906 is ready,” than smelling like sheep under a chaha’oh eating at home, yelling at your own dogs to “Gowan!”, stained red and green from butchering. (I’m sure you can smell that last sentence.)
Because deep down, that’s how you know you’re Diné. You eat hot-off-the-grill ach’íí’ like the sun isn’t real. You suffer a little for flavor. And you don’t ask for iced gohwééh.
Baa yáhásin, I’ll crank the heat up to a lucky Navajo four: the sun, the stew, the chile, and find a American Spirits cigarette as my reward, still sweating, still proud.
Get instant access to this story by purchasing one of our many e-edition subscriptions HERE at our Navajo Times Store.
Rate:
Highway 264,
I-40, WB @ Winslow