The food truck's chef was slow, their generator wailed, and the traffic sped by uncomfortably close. But their sopes were delicious. Seasoned meat, fresh fried masa base, and they weren't stingy with the queso fresco and crema.

My husband was incredulous that we had no real, identifiable street food culture when he moved roughly 50 miles up the street from Mexico to the United States. I'd say it was one of his hardest adjustments. Tacos were vastly less ubiquitous in New Mexico than in the old.

Street vendors in Mexico are everywhere, even on the gated edges of neighbors, where the gates were more of a suggestion, but the drunken returns from the bars meant a late-night business opportunity. Many years ago, as we were pregaming to hit the bars, I watched how one food vendor prepared for their evening from the second-floor window of his parents' house. Even before the various potted components were steaming, a line of neighbors had meandered over to start their orders.

Over the decade, it seemed that my husband's wish for street food manifested creation in the universe, and slowly, food trucks started arriving in our town. They'd be tucked into strange areas — a parking lot of the auto parts store, or the empty lots that spoke to future or stalled development.

I, a card-carrying member of the Sure, Let's Try That Street Food clan, would be ready to try the hopeful new food truck that would pop up in those locations. There were misses, but there were more wins, especially when it came to speaking Spanish.

Yes, of course, me, bumbling through an order attempting to mimic a Nortena accent, but more for my husband, whose accent allows for entry as much as it does for barriers. Sometimes, I could see a relaxation fall from the shoulders of those in the food truck, too. They saw him, his brewing excitement about th6e menu, and when they'd tentatively ask for an order in Spanish, he'd rattle it off, fomenting his desire for a taste of home through what might arrive on a Styrofoam plate.

Our sope food truck was run by a husband-and-wife duo who worked into the night after the husband's day shift at a local chain fast-food location. This truck was their dream. Their high school daughter took our orders and delivered them to our truck. Our daughter learned to balance the sope before inhaling it, a lesson learned of how tasty dishes and messiness are sometimes related, and that a mess is sometimes part of the experience.

One evening, the truck wasn't there. It wasn't there the following weekend. We suspect that the food truck was sold and given a paint job. The menu changed. We found other food trucks and made other messes as we sat in the bed of our truck; salsa was passed in the sunset light, and the Mexican Coke bottle passed with greasy hands.

The downside of supporting local businesses is that, sometimes, they fail. However, those who take the initiative can inspire others to come out and test the limits of their bravery and gumption. Where once the sope food truck sat, there are now five or six in the nearby area, and more chefs will hand out not just tacos but also a bit of themselves to those who seek a taste of home.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: micheile henderson at Unsplash