OR: SCREW THIS, I’M GOING TO A TACO TRUCK.
My foray into Mexican cuisine falls under the “I really don’t want to write about that” category. This dinner happened on the evening I reclaimed my home after a remodeling project. (One that included words that no home owner wants to hear, such as “black mold” and “colony of…”) So, to say the least, my mind and energy was not completely dedicated to the meal. Instead of thinking, “Yay, I’m going to learn to cook Mexican food!,” I was thinking, “Yay! That’s what my living room looks like without a bathroom vanity sitting in it for the first time in three months! I’m going to wax the floor!”
And so, the dinner was a failure. I started the grill late, had no appetizers ready, put cilantro (an ingredient that one of my guests would not eat) in everything, and somehow made rice that had the consistency of grits. Even though I washed it and everything. (Seriously, this is the second time my rice has turned to mush. It didn’t used to be this way; I’ve caught Maya’s curse.) My guests politely tried the rice mush and said it tasted nice, but it just didn’t seem like rice.