HELP ME ON THE COOKIES

You know that moment when your burrito comes, and it is steaming invitingly, and you cannot wait to eat it? That first bite? You know that moment when you open up, and prepare to receive its savoury goodness? That moment when you do not regret being alive, because you ordered a carnitas burrito with everything no beans?

Do you know that moment when you dump super-hot salsa on it?

Man-o-man-o-man, so good!

I enjoyed every bite.

It was delicious.


Unfortunately, the elderly German couple over at the next table were not enjoying their food. Perhaps it was the first Mexican they ever ate. And, if they were used to a lifetime of German food, it was probably A) unrecognizable, and B) not what they understood as food.

I give them kudos for trying.

It showed great courage.


San Francisco Mexican is, for Europeans, a foreign territory. It will take them several years to enjoy carnitas, over a century before they can assay the super-hot salsa.
As a testament to the exquisity of that condiment, I offer that once I got home I ate three bowls of ice-cream in quick succession, and still there was a fire in my fundament.


My apartment mate also had a fire in her fundament, in a manner of speaking. She stayed home yesterday because she was bleeding from the whatsis, it being that time of month. She spent the entire day at home in her jammies, surrounded Imelda-like by shoes. Two pairs of which are still in the television room. I think the adorable short boots are keepers, but I'm not so sure about the elegant sensible flats.
She has idiosyncratic taste.

Which explains the flavour of the icecream in the freezer.

As well as why we were a couple for a long time.

But it doesn't explain why we are no more.


It explains why we live together.

But not why I am single.

And she isn't.


I would have thought that, with her pickiness and particularities, she would have found it hard to grab another man, but perhaps Wheelie Boy has virtues of which I cannot conceive.


Maybe my taste is more idiosyncratic than hers. We still share icecream and other dairy products, dish detergent, and some condiments, as well as the television room. But we each have our own computers, never listen to each other's music, and don't do things together.

Her things in the refrigerator: cream cheese, peach jam, strawberry soda.

Specifically mine: hot sauce, pickled turnip, fatty pork.

Yes, we share the cheese.


Her boyfriend cannot eat cheese. He's one of those Eastern European Jewish types with a lactose intolerance, it gives him severe cramps and leads to other issues, and dairy products are his enemy.

She loves milk. And cheese. And butter.


I could make a snide comment about Cantonese women and their wide-ranging tastes in food, but I won't. Because I've always taken it for granted.


Instead, the comment is sneeringly directed at him.
No cheese. No milk. No butter.

And, like the couple at the next table, no Mexican.

Poor pathetic little wusspot.



AFTER THOUGHT

We don't have similar taste in cookies, and while she will occasionally nibble on cookies I purchase, most of the time she won't touch them.
Likewise, I find her taste in cookies to be peculiar.
But cookies aren't really an issue.

I'll just finish them by myself.
Taking one for the team.


That German couple probably dislikes the same cookies.
How marvelous to have so much in common.




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