Dearest Taco, We're Over.
Minerva Orduno Rincon Dear Taco, you're just not good enough anymore.
I'm sorry, but we have to break up. No, it isn't me; it's you. You've changed. You're not the same robust, cheap, and juicy meal you used to be. You used to be as big as my hand, now you're the length of my index finger. I thought portion sizes had grown out of control, but you've done nothing but shrink on me. I used to be able to eat three of you and be full for days; now I have to eat six or seven of you? Do you know what that does to a girl's self-esteem? Not good, former lover. Not good. And I used to be able to fold you safely in half and have your edges meet easily, but you've grown large in the middle, so large that lifting you for a hungry yet gentle bite causes you to fail me miserably and spill your guts with a resounding splat. That second tortilla girdle isn't fooling anyone, buddy: Time to go up a tortilla size.
You used to be more rustic and honest, less self-involved. Now you're all about your spicy mayo. Chipotle used to be good enough for you, but Mayan mayo? What is that exactly? And when did your tortilla get replaced by naan? Ugh, I don't even recognize you anymore.
Frankly, I feel like you're cheating on me. You've become so Americanized, so much less like your Mexican self. You're cheating on all of us who grew up loving you, visiting you during those cool desert evenings in your twinkly mountainside stand in Hermosillo. Those were lovely evenings of watching that glistening cone of marinated veal and pork spin on its vertical spit, thinly shaved unto your waiting tortilla, a chunk of warm and roasted pineapple cut on top. Salsa, cucumbers, onions mixed with cilantro and sprinkled with lime juice all waiting to dress you up to your full al pastor glory. I can't even remember the last time you bothered to dress yourself up like that for me. Our last time together, your onions were raw and naked! Naked! When did you stop trying at all, darling?
I'm sorry, dear. We're done. I'm replacing you with your much more robust cousin, the sope. I hate to admit it, but he's always been my favorite. Just look at his muscles, and how much more meat he carries with ease.
Minerva Orduno Rincon Gentle sope love bites.
Goodbye dear, I wish you well.
As proprietor of Muñeca Mexicana handcrafted food, Minerva Orduno Rincon makes everything from mole poblano to goat milk caramel to spiced (not spicy) cocoa. Find her at a farmers market near you.