Note, this one is from my journal and dates back a few years.

Some people collect postcards. I collect burrito wrappers.

There’s a stretch of road between Reno and Bridgeport that I drive whenever I need to clear my head—or test a recipe idea without actually stepping into the kitchen. It’s two-lane blacktop, winding through pine and sage, with views that make you forget your phone even exists.

A few weeks ago, I took the day off. No reservations. No prep lists. Just me, my dog Rosemary, a thermos of strong coffee, and a goal I didn’t realize I had until halfway through the day: three burritos. Morning, midday, and dusk.

Burrito #1 – Sunrise in South Reno

I started the day at a little gas station I’ve stopped at a dozen times before, mostly for coffee and tire pressure checks. But that morning, the taqueria in back had a sign:

“Breakfast Burritos $6. Real Hot Sauce. No Whining.”

I respect that kind of energy.

I ordered egg, bacon, and green chile. It came wrapped in foil and wisdom. The eggs were fluffy. The chile had just enough smoke to make me pause mid-bite and look around like someone needed to witness it. Rosemary got a bite. She approved.

Burrito #2 – Bridgeport Breakdown

By midday I was deep into the Sierras, stopped by a trailhead where I usually mountain bike. The legs weren’t feeling it, but the appetite was. I pulled a second burrito out of the cooler—this one homemade:

• Roasted sweet potato
• Chorizo
• Goat cheese
• A drizzle of tomatillo salsa I’d bottled the week before

I ate it sitting on the tailgate, dirt on my boots and cilantro on my shirt. Rosemary tried to negotiate for more than her share. We compromised.

I remember thinking, this is what lunch should be. No table, no rules. Just something warm, a view, and nothing pressing.

Burrito #3 – Sunset Pull-Off

The third one wasn’t planned. I passed through a tiny town where I’d seen a new food truck posted up near an old grain elevator. The sign just said “Huevos & Heat.” That’s marketing I can get behind. (note: unfortunately the last time I passed by here the food truck was nowhere to be found. Maybe I found Hotel California and this was simply a mirage)

I ordered their “Firestarter”—eggs, habanero sausage, pickled onions, and a chile crema that tasted like someone’s abuela made it after three margaritas. It burned, in the best way.

I ate it watching the sun drop behind a ridge, Rosemary curled in the passenger seat like she’d done this a hundred times. Honestly, she had.

I’ve had Michelin-starred meals that didn’t stick with me like those burritos did.

Maybe it’s the road. Maybe it’s the simplicity. Maybe it’s the way food tastes better when you’re a little dusty and a little tired.

Whatever it is, I know this:
I’ve never met a breakfast burrito I didn’t like.
But every now and then… I meet one I remember.