My love affair with the vibrant culture and cuisine of Mexico began many years ago. As a kid, growing up in South Florida, where at the time Mexican meant Tex-Mex and the restaurants were often chain, the idea of Mexican food felt so very exotic, so foreign in an otherwise white bread existence.
There was something magical about that never-ending basket of greasy tortilla chips dunked into bland, but somehow tasty, tomato salsa. Mom allowed us kids the wondrous treat of sipping on a virgin version of the fruity cocktails the adults were drinking; I sucked down my . . .
