Taco Tuesday

Everybody loves tacos. Everybody loves Tuesday. (You don’t? For shame!!)

When you put these two together, it makes for one supreme concept. Taco Tuesday.

My first taco Tuesday was a spaz. I burnt the filling, added too much salt to the guacamole, and opted for cheap sour cream. Young, dumb, and full of rum. It was ho-hum but still pretty darn awesome.

For a long time, taco Tuesday always included something gone awry. I flipped the entire bowl of salsa on the floor once. Another time, the avocados were brown and funky, so we went without. Everything from mushy rice, moldy cheese, soggy tortillas, to rotten limes, undercooked beans, and stale corn chips sabotaged our weekly Mexican feast. However, I noticed that even with these little quirks, the guests, mainly me, my family, and occasional friends, thoroughly enjoyed the spread.

Then it happened. Total Taco Tuesday perfection. It was sublime. The beans were exceptionally creamed, the amounts of cilantro and lime in the salsa was an ingenious equation, and just the right measure of chilies, corn, and seasoning in rice that had not a single grain stuck together. My homemade tortillas crisped up nice around the edges but kept soft and fluffy towards the middle. The veggies were faultless. I felt like queen of the world. I swear it wasn’t those margaritas!

Every Tuesday after that, I strived to reach that regale supremeness. I began to fixate so much on absolutes that my fondness of the event was greatly diminished. I noticed my patrons were also not relishing the time either. It grew shorter each time until it had become a quick in and out. My fanatical idea of a flawless themed dinner night was self-destructing. What had I done wrong? What could I do better? What kind of beans should be bought? Should I use different flour next time? Maybe I could buy a set of Talavera dishes? I became obsessed. I pressured myself harder each time, even splurging on expensive take out once, until one Tuesday evening I got the call. My son and his family couldn’t make it. He was ditching Taco Tuesday! It was over. I had failed. Throwing the dish of unfinished beans to the back of the stove, leaving the lime rinds, onions, and tomatoes uncut on the counter, I drank several beers and cried myself to sleep that night. My husband and daughter sullenly cooked and ate pasta.

In my troubled slumber, I dreamt I was riding a giant Chihuahua through the streets of Mexico. I rode past streets filled with green, red, and white. I saw happy natives downing taquitos, tamales, and carnitas, with huge, happy smiles. They were all so content, laughing, dancing, and interacting. I heard a cheerful yell, and looking up, saw an old, wrinkled lady, with a silky silver mane, swoop down and land beside me. My dog had shrunk to normal size and jumped up to cozily snuggle in her lap. She didn’t say anything, just sat leisurely accompanying me, while passively petting the dog and watching the people enjoying themselves, humming along to a jolly tune. I desperately wanted to ask her a thousand questions. Every time I turned to her, she dismissed my urgency and gestured towards the people. I would watch a little while, then feeling the insistence to speak, would try to engage, and again, she would gesture to the people. When I finally gave up and sat watching the festive activities, I began to feel merry and joyful too. My feet were tapping to the lively music. I felt light as a feather. I snuck a glance to the lady, and she was jovial. She grinned at me and threw her face to the sky and started to chuckle. Then she grabbed my hand as the chuckle turned to a gleeful cackle. We both sat roaring with gaiety until we were in tears. After, she offered me a plate of food. We both began to eat from the platter. Every bite I took was bliss. Even though the beans were charred, the tomatoes were a little green, the tortillas were soppy, and split open, spilling the filling as I was eating them. The salsa was so spicy it was like eating fire. We both were delighted that we breathed fire ever time we took a bite. Everyone was blowing fire, yet no one got hurt. After the sun had set, the fire provided light and warmth for the celebrations. The stars held maracas, wore sombreros, and sang lullabies to me as I began to float towards the heavens.

The next morning, I woke up with that dear old woman’s toothless smile stuck in my head. I apologized to my husband and daughter for my besetting behavior and prepared their favorite breakfast. All week the woman’s essence stuck with me, and come Tuesday, feeling lighthearted and blessed, the spirit of that matriarch and I cooked food. Lovingly prepared, not so perfect, food. When my family gathered at the dinner table, we all sat together, fully in the moment, and talked, cut up, grinned, and devoured that food. Not two shits were given about the bought tortillas or the lack of sweet pepper in the sauce. However, there was a joke cracked about the salsa being so hot it felt like eating fire. We all laughed, but I laughed the hardest, but as I did, I would have sworn a dreamlike cackle joined in the banter. Now, every Tuesday is a carefree, cherished affair at our house, and the camaraderie is the main course. The moral of the story? Perfection is fleeting. It is the ones held dear and the moments in between that make life worth living. And, of course, tacos!