Boulevard of broken tacos
Tonight, my wife assembled the perfect taco. She takes an avant-garde approach, first lining the inside of the shell with sour cream and then layering the perfect amount of freshly shredded cheddar cheese. Next comes the meat followed by finely diced tomatoes, onions, avocado and cilantro.
My sons and I watched her construct her gastronomical masterpiece while recklessly shoving our own hastily assembled tacos into our mouths like like a pack of lions devouring a fresh kill. We are savages, grunting our way through dinner and barely tasting it. Not my wife. She rellishes the process, one ingredient at a time, building the suspense like a true artist. We are peasants in the kingdom of taco appreciation, my wife is the queen. But tonight, the queen did fall.
I was halfway through my fourth taco when she finally sat down to claim the well deserved victory that was her delicately crafted dinner. She set the taco on the table and a hushed silence swept over the room. My sons and I gazed upon her beautiful creation in awe. I swear to you it was as if a faint light began to radiate from her plate. Our gluttonous grunting ceased and we could hear gentle harp music accompanying an angelic choir singing, “This taco is going to be really, super awesome!”
She glanced at us, pittyingly and with just a touch of disdain. It is, I imagine, how all the great minds must look at us uninspiring, plebeian wretches.
I saw a faint smile begin the grow at the corner of her mouth and that smile said everything. It was hungry and passionate and determined. That smile walked into the room like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. “Alright Mr. Demille, ” it said. “I’m ready for my close up.”
Then she set her water down next to her plate when in an act of cosmic injustice it somehow tipped over, simultaneously crushing and drenching her taco.
There is a moment of calm before storms such as what came next. I sat there with my mouth agape, pieces of taco shell and cheese stuck to my face. My boys each held the same horrified expression. That’s when my wife, the way only only an impassioned and misunderstood genius possibly could, totally lost her shit.
She screamed, she cried, she cursed the gods. We stopped chewing entirely until she left the room, swearing that she would never make another taco again.
I made her another taco. It was a sad replacement for the Sistine Chaple of tacos which was just moments before destroyed but it was nourishment. She shoveled it down savagely like we do. The end result is similar.
Sometimes in life, we pour our very heart and soul into a thing only to watch our hard work and bold dreams shattered by the harsh realities of an unsympathetic, singular moment. It’s not the end of the world, it’s just the way the taco sometimes crumbles.