I’ve never blogged about food before. I love to eat, so that makes sense like it being me if the phone doesn’t ring. But the feast in front of me earlier today was something quite magnificent, something that deserves to be written about.
I was picking up repaired spiked heels about 10 miles from the funeral home because they are the only cobbler around. I couldn’t justify driving to Gresham without another mission, but I was saved by gastrula intervention thru Facebook: My friend Mary had bragged about eating chili rellenos that were so incredibly scrumptious and fantastic. The food truck outside her classic auto business needed somebody to sample a few before they were placed on the menu. Mary posted that they were absolutely amazing, and not just because free is a fabulous fare. I knew immediately I needed a burrito to satisfy my frugality.
I picked up the shoes and make my way to Uly’s Taco Bar. In five minutes I am back in my vehicle, ready to savor the contents of my tin foil car bomb. The first bite gives me soft avocado, firm black beans with a slight hint of cilantro. The combination is enough to make me close my eyes and moan. It was one of those moments where the person in the passenger seat would look at me comfortably. But I have the car all to myself as a makeshift eating trough; I can spread out my salsas, my napkins and my pants.
I didn’t bother opening up my little plastics of salsa until bite seven or eight. I wanted to savor the handiwork its newness and nudeness. Uly’s didn’t disappoint, as I was deep in one of those I-need-to-put-the-burrito-down-now-so-I-can-start-driving-the-car moments. But I couldn’t put the burrito down. It was that good. I could feel the mess on my face and the bean trickling down my sweater but I couldn’t stop. Intangible charm was never, ever in doubt. This was the sort of burrito you just end up chain-biting. (Unlike this representation of a badly-made burrito.)
I am pulled out of my avocado haze by a man knocking on my passenger window. “Are you going to move? I see you in your car,” he yells through the glass. I am caught red-handed, literally, because salsa is running down my fingers into the sleeves of my shirt. He watched me walk from Uly’s to my car and followed me to get my coveted space. Four, five minutes he’s been waiting while I’ve been stuffing my hole. Oh my gosh.
Even as I write this I want my burrito back. I want that large foil wrapped tummy expanding goodness in my hands. I want to pick up the phone and call my next door neighbor, Dominique, who is a skilled, professional European chef but I’m afraid to hear her tell me that she can make a better one. I don’t want to know. I don’t feel stuffed, I feel content. I guess you could say it hit the spot. It hit many spots. I have sour cream on my leg, avocado under my nails, and I can feel some rice in my teeth.
It’s shameful. It really is. It’s like the time I hurried to remove the red popsicles from the multi-pack before my daughter got into the car (because those are my favorite) and I wanted them all for myself. I quickly hurried while she was still gathering her things to come out from her dance lesson and I glanced up real quick to make sure I still had time. My eyes locked with a woman who had a clear distain on her face for the actions that I was taking. She knew what I was doing. She knew that I was squirreling away coveted snacks from my beautiful daughter who was wearing a flouncy tutu, finishing up her ballet. Red-hot guilt burned my face, but no matter. I had frozen red popsicles to cool me down.