This weekend will be my first trip to the Mexican grocery store. I’m taking LawyerBoy, who is arguably the most translucent human on earth—like baby-blond hair, white skin, the whole thing. He is French.
I haven’t been since the days when those were my dates with {D}. We’d hit up the Mexican grocery store, he’d speak Spanish, we’d buy lots of cheese, and then spend the day cooking naked and watching TV.
LawyerBoy told me he wanted to make nachos. Then he said something about canned salsa con queso and ground beef, and the inner Mexican snob {D} apparently installed in me came roaring out.
What is the meaning of this orange plastic cheese? And why does anyone need to look up a recipe for margaritas? Margaritas have three ingredients: limes, Cointreau, and tequila, motherfucker.
So I told him to buy a shit ton of limes and asked if he had a citrus press. {D} would be so proud.
On the other hand, {D} eats like a three-year-old and pouts like one too. Frozen pizza, Mexican food, and gin are the entirety of his food group. Maybe his girlfriend makes him eat something green now. I wouldn’t know. I’m busy evolving.
As for me, I’m headed to Cardenas to get poblano peppers and Oaxaca cheese. Maybe I’ll stop at Roberto’s for a chile relleno burrito on the way.
See? Something good did come of it. Maybe we can watch some MMA next and break out the brie.
Y para {D}: que te jodan. Tranquilo — nadie te va a quitar tu pizza congelada ni tu gin. Yo me quedo con el queso de verdad, las limas frescas y la extraña experiencia de estar con alguien que no se ofende frente a una verdura.
Add comment
Comments