Taco Intervention

There once was a time when if I hankered for a taco, or a burrito, or even just a small cup of pintos & cheese, I sat alone. My nuclear family left me no alternative.

Recently as one year ago, not one other person under our roof shared my craving for the occasional flour tortilla wrapped around spiced meat and vegetables, covered in enchilada sauce and sprinkled with queso fresco.

El Vaquero? No.

El Chapala? No.

San Felipe? Maybe, but only because they have stir fry platters and we can pretend those aren't Mexican dishes.

Faster fare such as Moe's or Taco Bell? Don't even waste the energy it takes to speak their names.

Then things changed. Somewhere along the way from last summer to this spring, My Lovely Wife discovered a heretofore under-utilized portion of her equatorially-oriented palate. I don't recall the exact date she first requested tacos for dinner, all I know is she didn't have to ask twice. It was just like the time she commented on taking down the wallpaper in the guest bathroom and I started peeling it off the wall before she had a chance to change her mind. That was some horrendously ugly wallpaper.

As the months passed, requests for tacos came more frequently. Our daughter didn't seem to mind, since we didn't ramp up the heat too much, which isn't saying a whole lot since this is the same kid who wouldn't eat the honey-coated chicken nuggets at Chik Fil-A when she was little because she said they were too spicy. "They make my tongue itchy," she would say, causing us to wonder whether she needed to be institutionalized.

The German also seems to enjoy the occasional taco dinners. It's the Italian who balks, but we've found a way to satisfy him by filling his tortilla with bland chicken and salad dressing. Essentially the opposite of a vegetarian wrap -- a carnivorian wrap, if you will.

But lately the strain of the prospect of yet another week of taco nights is beginning to show when their Mother makes the suggestion. "We just had tacos," the German will whine, while his brother shuts his eyes and shakes his head like an angry mime.

Even I have to confess to occasionally attempting to thwart the taco regime from taking full command. After all, at this rate it won't be long before My Lovely Wife's weekend naps are officially relabeled "siestas," the poodle is replaced with a chihuahua named Chuy, and we're all required to wear sombreros to the dinner table.

Just be forewarned if you call our house and the person who answers says "Hola," don't immediately assume you dialed the wrong number.




© 2012 Mark Feggeler