More of a shitty thing does not make it less shitty.

It’s late and her Jeep is making funny noises, but the only thing she can think about is a meaty plate of carne asada nachos and a fish taco. Two long months have come and gone and the memory of her last experience echoes inside her. Thoughts of the deliciously pink shrimp, warm tortilla, and mixture of salsa and crema are persistent. She’s in a day dream until the harsh blare of a car horn takes her away from her reverie and brings her back to reality. Lost in a world of shrimp burritos, she’s veered slightly into the next lane, almost causing an accident. “For fucks sake, pay attention,” our heroine chides herself. The low grumble of protest emanates from her midsection. “Damn it, fine! You win, we’ll stop and get something before we get home.” she mutters to herself.

The drive thru taco shop down the street from her house is like an old, familiar friend at this point. She can go a few months without a visit, but she always knows what to expect when she pulls up next to the menu. “Somethings never change,” she thinks aloud, punctuating the thought with a smile. “Hello. May I take your order?” The accent is thick as it crackles out of the speaker. “One shrimp taco, please. And an order of the carne asada nachos.” Tonight is not a night to try new things, to unleash pent up passions and find herself breathless at the very thought of the experience. No, tonight is a night for pajamas, television, and a plate of nachos that remind you of an old friend. The voice on the other side provides her with what she is sure would be her total if she could decipher what he was saying, but pulls forward to the window regardless.

The man on the other side of the pane isn’t graceful like the last woman who helped her. No, he clumsily shoves the napkins the bag with little regard to neatness. Every move he makes seems inefficient and she gets the distinct impression that he doesn’t want to be there. She hands him her card, the magic happens with ones and zeros, and now her bank account has $13 fewer dollars in it. The card is thrust back into her hands along with her receipt with little to no grace. She is starting to get annoyed that this is taking so long cause, at this point, it just feels like her very presence is bothering the cashier. She almost feels let down. She has kept coming back because this never happens. She just wants to take her food and go at this point.

After what felt like an eternity, the beautiful white bag of goodness is handed to her and she makes her way home. She makes herself a glass of Dr. Pepper, puts on her most unattractive, comfortable pajamas pants, and plants herself in front of a show she is pretty sure she is culturally appropriating. Her cat, smelling the fish taco, seats herself on the arm rest next to her. “Drink, tv, cat, and food…let’s do this.” The first thing  she pulls from the bag a styrofoam rectangle covered in tinfoil. Fish tacos are her favorite, so her the excitement on her face at eating chowing down on her favorite food is slowly replaced with annoyance. Underneath the tinfoil wrapping sits a mountain of shredded cabbage. She parts the sea of cheap filler food in search for the main event. She takes off half of the cabbage and the fish is STILL buried underneath. With a disgruntled sigh, she gives up. She ordered out so she wouldn’t have to do anything but put some salsa on her food and escort the food into her mouth. She takes a large bite and swallows. Picking a piece of cabbage out of her teeth, she swears from now on she is going to order her tacos without it. The amount of useless, tasteless vegetable was so overwhelming, she could barely taste the fish, the reason she ordered it in the first place. And what little fish she got was so below par. Has she been eating shitty Mexican food from this place the whole time and only just now realized it?

Giving up on the taco, she turns her attention to the black take out box. She places one hand in the bag to pick it up but quickly realizes she needs both to handle this beast. Her expectations, lowered considerably by the experience of just a few moments ago, are immediately brought back up. With high hopes, she places it in her lap and slowly opens up the top. What awaits her inside is an amalgamation of sad looking carne asada, poorly portioned sour cream, guacamole and shredded cheese atop far too few chips. Closing her eyes in disappointment and sighing in resignation, she picks up one of the few chips that isn’t soggy and still holding shape  and uses it to spoon a piece of meat into her mouth. She really wants it to be good; she is willing it to be, but it just isn’t. This is the most mediocre, under seasoned carne asada she has ever had had the misfortune to let slide past her lips. And there is so much! Almost like they knew how terrible it was and overcompensated by just piling as much shitty meat as possible into one container and covering it with sour cream and guac to hide how shitty it was. This experience has literally left a bad taste in her mouth.

Our heroine takes her Mexican food very seriously, so it’s no surprise when she knocks off the blanket placed across her lap to catch any errant piece of nacho that may to ground in a huff. “Fuck this shit,” she says under her breath, closing the take out container holding, what is in her opinion, the worst thing she has ever eaten. “What a waste of thirteen fucking bucks.” She drops the container in the trash can in the garage, she doesn’t even want that filth in her home. She pops open the fridge, grabs a bottle of $4 wine and heads upstairs to take bath. She copes with this terrible experience in a way only the most basic of white girls can: a bottle of cheap white zin, a hot, bubbly soak, and her cat.

 

 

 

 

Advertisement

Camarones

The velvety air hung heavy on her bare shoulders, the stiffest of breezes begrudgingly caressing them on unseasonably warm evening.  Clouds hanging low, obscuring any natural light coming from Lady Luna. The night was one meant for passion. She could taste the lust on her lips, it was so palpable. Hunger drives her. Hunger for something soft and delicate, yet substantial enough fill her completely and satisfy the longing inside of her.

A small taco shop sits on the corner. Bright green letters against black shout its name to the entire block. It’s sandwich between one of those 24 hour breakfast places with mediocre coffee and amazing hash browns and one of the many strip clubs in the area, complete with worn out neon sign. She pulls up to the drive thru with confidence. Too often, she over thinks or is too timid to say exactly what she wants. Not tonight. The warm air on her skin has ignited something inside her and she knows exactly what she wants inside her tonight.

“Can I get one shrimp burrito and a small horchata, please?” She pulls up to the window, looking on in anticipation as the lady on the other side goes about her business. Gracefully, skillfully she grabs a small handful of napkins and places them in the bag before pivoting on her heel to catch my drink right before it starts to overflow. Static in the air creates a small spark of electricity between them as their hands softly touch each other for a brief moment. A shiver runs down her spine, but then at last the horchata is completely in her hands.

A first, small sip dances on her tongue, unleashing the sweet flavors of rice and cinnamon. Pulling the straw back from her slightly parted lips, she swallows in satisfaction, undeniably content with this particular moment in her life.  She takes one more delicious, sultry sip, and then forces herself to wait. Something about being denied makes the anticipation that much sweeter for her.

Glancing up, she sees her burrito making its way to her from the window. Carefully, she takes the bag and sets it on the seat next to her, eyeing her prize like a spider does a fly. “Let’s get somewhere a bit more cozy, huh?” Her hunger and desire grow stronger with every block she passes until she can’t stand it anymore. Pulling into the parking lot of a shady hotel, she pulls back a small corner of the wrapper and nibbles a small piece of fresh, warm tortilla. Her salivary glands jump into a frenzy as she relishes the first bite, and readies for the next one. Slowly, seductively, she pulls back a little more of the wrapper, the weight of her prize solid in her other hand. Her is mouth slightly parted with tongue peeking out, ready for another taste. Teasing herself, she laps up the overflowing salsa threatening to spill over onto her white tank top. Once again, she closes her eyes in simple satisfaction, letting the full flavor of the unique, creamy tomato salsa to permeate her tastebuds. With each bite, a wave of pleasure rides over her. The taste of the shrimp and rice on her tongue, dancing a dance of lovers and passion in the warm, velvety space.

A bittersweet moment, when she comes to that final bite. Swallowing the last sip of horchata, she takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh of contentment.

So basic and yet, so wet, so delicious.

Hungover. So incredibly, terribly hungover. She let her basic side show last night, mixing watermelon vodka and Crystal Light lemonade. A far cry from the whiskey and craft beer she’s become accustomed to in recent months. And so, our heroine is dealing with the wake of nausea and misery left to her by her remarkable ability to be a basic white bitch.

A beautiful SoCal day can not be wasted on the poor decisions of the night before, however. Hangover be damned. Behooded, sweat pantsed, and day old make up caked on her face, looking more basic than ever, she drags herself out of the house and down the street to find something to soak up the awful inside of her. Looking as rough as she feels, grump and hungry, she crosses her arms over her chest and realizes she isn’t even wearing a bra. Basic bitch has turned to straight up hot mess. Rolling her eyes, she continues on, the bright San Diego sun and the noisy traffic compounding the hanger eating away at her.

It’s Southern California. She can’t throw a rock without hitting a Mexican place, so she stumbles into the first one that’s open. The middle aged Mexican man at the counter gives her a knowing smile; he’s seen her type before. She mumbles the little bit of Spanish she knows, “Uno momento, por favor. Gracias.” She’s pretty sure she could die right then and there. The guy just laughs at her and goes about whatever the fuck it was he was doing. “Fuck you laughing at?” she thinks completely irrationally. She knows it, too, and gives the guy who’s none the wiser an apologetic smile before finally diverting her full attention to the overwhelming menu up top.

“Too many goddamn fucking decisions. God fucking dammit. Why the hell do they have to have so many fucking options. Holy fucking hell.” she thinks to herself. Our heroine is kind of a bitch when she’s hungry. Slowly, under her breath, she reads the name of every single fucking burrito. “Fuck carne asada…you can go to hell pollo asada. Hmmm, Cali burrito? You are my one true love, but you fuck right hell off. Goddamn, I am so fucking hungry. Shit. Oh fuck, fish burrito? Hell yeah, fish fucking burrito.” She looks like a homeless person off her meds,  but finally she takes a step towards the counter and places an order for one fish burrito.

She sits down at a table, some telenovela or other brightly colored and overly dramatic is playing from the small television mounted above the Bible that is opened to the first chapter of the book of Proverbs. “Great, first I get judged at by the guy behind the counter and now the fucking literature is telling me what a goddamn fool I am.” Resting her head down, she hopes that either death, sleep, or her burrito will hurry the fuck up. She doesn’t care which. She’s not picky. Ten minutes seems like an eternity, but finally the burrito beats both death and sleep to get to her.

Greedily, she grabs her food from the counter and makes her way to a table in the corner, back to the rest of the world. Currently, she hates everyone and everything and wants them to be aware of it. They are not invited to her little corner of the world right now. Slouched in her chair, shoulders hunched, she picks it up. The weight and warmth of it in her hand cause her to sit up a little bit straighter. The hangover is still there with a vengeance, but somehow the anticipation of what’s in front of her dulls it just the slightest. Her mood lifts, just a little bit. She is throwing around fewer “fucks” in her head than previously. With what little physical energy she can muster, she pulls the hot, steaming burrito to her lips, parted in both desire and need.

First bite. Mostly just freshly heated tortilla, delicious regardless. Slowly, warmth makes it way down her throat, to her belly, and reaches all the way to her toes. She starts to tingle as the first hints of life start to awaken in her.

Second bite. The beautiful comings together of fresh lettuce and pico de gallo. A marriage so simple in design, and yet flavors so complex and sensual. She savors this bite a little longer, letting these beautifully basic ingredients linger an extra few seconds. She swallows and, against her will, lets out a little moan of pleasure. Startled by herself, she takes a quick look around, but no one is paying her any mind.

Third bite. The fish, so lightly, so perfectly battered, makes its grand appearance. She takes a lime and gently squeezes, not wanting to overpower the perfect taste of the delicate filling. Flaky and warm, the salty taste ocean, not to powerfully, invades her senses. She closes her eyes, no longer in exhaustion, but from the satisfaction of a sated hanger.

Her mood continues to lighten the further her mouth explores the depths of the hulking piece in her in hand. The salsa and crema, however perfectly rationed, slowly seep over the side. Playfully, she flicks her tongue up and down the side of the burrito, lapping up the creamy mixture, savoring it on her tongue, and swallowing it. She smiles to herself as she licks a stray drop from her finger, and finishes the rest of her meal.

She sits back in her chair for a few moments, the sun shining through the window seeming less harsh, the colors on the telenovela, less garish. The memory of the taste of her meal slowly fades, as she smiles in contentment. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the best burrito she’s ever eaten. However, in that moment, she had never thought anything had ever been so beautiful. With that thought in the back of her head, she clears her table, walks outsides, and heads home towards a desperately needed nap.

You were my very first.

---

 

 

Growing up in a small town in Northeast Florida, she had never really experienced true love. Yes, Spanish paella made an excellent lover. With the right glass of sangria, a very satisfying ménage a trois could be had, but they never connected with her soul. Southern comfort always tried its hardest, too. Cornbread, fried porkchops, and a glass of sweet tea are good friends to have. They are sturdy; they won’t let you down. But, like a good pair of tennis shoes, they lacked the fire and passion that she craved. In vain, she tried many different types of food from Cuban to Puerto Rican to Greek. Each only satisfied her at her very basest level. None ever reached deep down in her, touched her very soul like her very first California burrito.

She walks into the taco shop across the street from her hotel, the little bell above the announcing door her arrival as she pushed it open. Her senses immediately assaulted by the brightly colored walls, the high tempo music, and the Mexican telenovela playing on the television that everyone in the restaurant was engrossed by. Her first glance at the menu overwhelms her. She’s not sure what half of these words mean. Tortas and tostadas, adobada and carne asada, she is completely at a loss. Finally, her eyes approach two familiar words: burrito and French fries. Timidly, she approaches the counter, “Can I have the California burrito, please?” A basket of fresh tortilla chips is thrust into her hands “B..b..but I didn’t order these!” The guy has already turned his back to her, busy with another order.

She takes what she is pretty sure are chips she should have paid for and looks for a place to sit. Against the wall, there is a silver cart with plastic sneeze guard, standing sentry. She feels incredibly uncomfortable and knows she looks out of place, but curiosity gets the best of her.     The contents of this cart opened her eyes and made her realize that Southern California is one of the best places in the world. Laid out in stainless steel containers, nestled gently in layers ice is an assortment of various brightly colored salsas and pickled vegetables. Her guilt at not paying for the chips and feelings of being out of place slowly starting to melt away, she grabs a handful of the little cups and begins to ladle each of the salsas into them.

She bides the rest of her time patiently, letting her eyes drink more deeply of the colorful surroundings. Generic pictures of Coronas in a bucket on a beach, horchata and jamaica, and margaritas pepper the brightly colored walls. The table has seen better days with paint coming of the top and the chair has a rip in the vinyl. The tile on the lower half the wall, though chipped in various places, gives off a festive vibe and the upper have is painted to accent in it. The television, which is now playing some absurd game show, she thinks, reminds her of the old ones they used back in elementary school. Part of her is a snob; part of her wants to get up and leave cause this place looks like a rat hole. But then, she her eyes run across the salsa bar and then across her own personal stash at the table. It’s too late anyway. The man behind the counter yells out something in Spanish, and she catches just enough of it to know her order is ready.

She makes her way to the counter to be greeted by a monstrous work of art. Winding her way back to her table with her prize, a look of incredulity comes over her face. Her previous burrito experience only being with Taco Bell, she is mesmerized and taken aback. It takes both hands firmly grasping it to pick it up. She looks down at it, unsure of where to begin. “How am I supposed to fit something this big into my mouth?!”, she thinks to herself with a giggle. She takes a deep breath and then a large bite. As she pulls the burrito away from her mouth, the cheeses forms a momentary bridge, almost unwilling to sever the connection that has just been made. A little bit of crema has leaked out the side onto her chin, and pieces of carne asada are falling the tray below. She doesn’t care. This singular moment in time changed her life. The glorious polyamorous marriage among the guacamole, cheese and crema, the incredible balance of flavors between the carne asada and French fries, it all melded together. After that first sensuous parting of her lips, slowly bringing her teeth down around it, taking the bite in with her tongue and savoring every second. There is no going back for her. She has met her soul mate.