Tacos, According to Girl

Tacos according to Girl: "I’m cooking this weekend," I remarked to Mike, as we parted ways on the bus ride from Glendale to Brooklyn. My stop came first. We always stood for that few miles of diesel-powered, jam-packed New York Transit Authority bus ride down Myrtle Avenue. We would hold onto a stainless steel post, steadying ourselves to avoid landing in someone’s lap, or even more embarrassing, landing on the floor. As I gave Mike a quick air kiss, he replied, "What are you making?"
And I was gone—past the crowd, down the back steps, and onto the street.

Janice had been my nearest and dearest friend throughout the last few months I spent in Grand Rapids before heading New York. She was an amazing woman with endless talents. One weekend night she invited me over for dinner. When I walked in, I saw she was deep frying something she called "tortillas." I watched, and learned how to make tacos.

She had me cut up tomatoes and lettuce, then grate some cheese. She browned about a pound of lean ground chuck, added a small can of refried beans, and mixed in some special seasonings.

The tortillas started out flat. When she removed them from the fryer, she bent them in half. Then she added the ingredients we had prepared. First she spooned in the meat and bean mixture, then the tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese. Finally, she drizzled on some hot sauce.

My first bite told me I needed to remember this recipe. Outstanding. Before the world knew about Taco Bell, Janice from the west side of Grand Rapids had the inside track. Knowing then, what I know now, I should have invested in a taco stock.

I took this simple, tasty recipe home to Dad. He was the cook at my house. Generally he was a meat and potatoes guy. He only diverted from the standard to enjoy a can of baked beans, which he learned to like in the Marines. Other than that, we had lots of mashed potatoes, veggies, pork chops, and sometimes roast beef. On weekends he would make the best hamburgers, usually serving them on pumpernickel bread.

So, when I suggested that I was going to make dinner for the family on a Saturday night, the whole family thought I was out of my mind. This was not done. Mom did not even exert much authority in Dad’s kitchen. It was his castle, and my job was to clean up, not cook in it. Before I began, I made sure there was a can of baked beans in the cupboard, just in case my plan backfired.

Just as I had learned from Janice, I took the big heavy cast iron fry pan and started with the tortillas, keeping them warm in the oven after they were fried. Then, I chopped, grated and put all the ingredients in small bowls. I set the table and said a prayer.

Everyone sat. Everyone ate. Everyone, even Dad, loved my tacos!

From that day on, until the day he died, once a week was taco night at my house.

On the way home from work that night, I stopped at a small grocery store. I was thankful they had tortillas along with all of the other ingredients. Mike was going to be so surprised. It was four blocks from the store to the apartment. I sang all the way. Sometimes I hum, sometimes I sing. Some days I am like a bird and cannot stop singing.

Throughout history people have asked, "What is love?"

I think love is a little like listening to music being played in another room, and singing along with it because I really love the tune. Even if the door closes, or a train passes, I don’t stop singing. Even if I can’t hear the music anymore, I still keep singing. That’s how I think it is with love.

Anyway, I made tacos for Mike that night, and he loved them. He kissed the cook, and we also started having a taco night once a week. This was exactly how it happened. Thanks to Janice.