A culinary experience of my own

Not Your Typical Tuesday

I plan my Tuesdays around one, and one thing only. It has been a part of my weekly routine for a few months now, and I like to call it “Taqueria Tuesday.” For those unfamiliar with this term it simply translates to the fact that I eat Taqueria del Sol every Tuesday of every week after I get off work no matter the circumstances. On this particular Tuesday, June 17^th, I woke up and went about my daily routine. I wake up, shower, make coffee, scrounge for something to eat, and relax until my class at 11:45. Normally I manage to eat before going to class, but on this day I woke up late and threw off my entire schedule. The harsh reality of knowing I would be running on an empty stomach from class through work until five set in as I made my way out the door. It looked like the start to a pretty rough day, but at least I knew I would have Taqueria del Sol to help me eat my way into a full-bodied food coma when 5:15 came around, or so I thought.

It was 2:00 and I had been at work for around 30 minutes. I work at a local law office for a lawyer who just so happens to be on vacation this week, so my days consist of reading and answering the occasional phone call. Around 2:00 was when it really started to hit me. It came from somewhere deep inside my gut like a wrench grinding open an old, rusted bolt. From this point on I knew the rest of my day would be spent in anguish, floating somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, due to extreme hunger pains. If I had had anything to focus my attention on it might have lessened the pain and maybe even quieted the growls, but I had absolutely nothing to do alone, in an office, except read Kurt Vonnegut’s “The Sirens of Titan” and stare hopelessly at the clock.

I then went down the dangerous path of daydreaming that often comes when you’re feeling on the brink of starvation; the daydream of what food will save you from your misery. I started imagining the crispness of the chicken in a fried chicken taco, its secret heavenly sauce and freshly diced lettuce and tomatoes wrapped in a simple tortilla. I could see myself pouring the salsa carnita along the crispy strip of chicken, adding a deep, bold, smokey flavor to the mix. It all came together and I lifted the taco to my mouth and took a bite, chewing slowly as to absorb all the flavors. It was pure bliss.

At this point I’m pretty sure I snapped out of it due to the fact I was drooling at my desk and gazed longingly at the screen, practically begging the minutes to pass by.

Three hours and however many chapters later, I was finally free. I turned off the lights, grabbed my phone and purse, and locked up the office door. The very instant I heard the click of the knob into the socket my throat clenched, my heart stopped, I was overcome with regret and almost completely knocked off my feet by my idiocy. I had left my keys sitting inside, right on my desk, right through the door that I had just locked. I was absolutely befuddled. Here I was, locked out without my keys, to an office whose owner was on vacation, with a stomach that was minutes away from crawling up my throat and strangling me. I turned to the only person I knew that could save me at this point. “Siri, where is the nearest locksmith?” My little robot went to work and brought up a few different links. I called the first one I saw and a woman answered and said she would send someone over in approximately 10 minutes. The next 10 minutes for me were spent sitting there on the office steps with my head in my palms having accepted that this was just “one of those days.”

A man in an all tan jumpsuit, like one you would imagine someone working under the hood of a car would wear, walked up with a few small tools in his hands. “Are you Mary?” the stranger asked. “Yes,” I replied, “that’s me, and it’s this door right here.” I pointed in the direction of the lock that stared at me in an almost condescending way.  He fiddled with his little metal tools and in about two minutes the door was open. I ran inside and grabbed my keys; they were sitting right on my desk where I had forgotten them. I gave the stranger my card and paid my expenses, hating myself for being so forgetful the whole time. When I saw the total cost of this two-minute procedure I almost threw up, and that would’ve been quite a feat considering I had nothing in my stomach. I won’t go into details but just for future reference and knowledge in case you are locked out somewhere: unlocking corporate buildings costs far more than you would imagine, my personal suggestion is to break a window and pay for that instead.

            I was finally in my car, somewhere lost between anger and desperation, and I had come to the sad realization that because of the hunk of money I had just lost even the two dollar and thirty-nine cent chicken tacos were out of my price range. I drove back home feeling defeated, trying to take my mind off Taqueria and focus on what I was actually going to put into my body, because having food at this point was absolutely essential. I went home and checked my pantry. I had a box of Rotinni pasta and a can of tomatoes. I will admit I’ve never been a very good chef, but I thought I could conjure up something at least somewhat edible. I began to boil the pasta and put the can of tomatoes into a small pot. I searched around for spices and anything that seemed like it would add to my culinary creation. I hit gold when I found an onion and chopped up a good bit into the tomatoes. Then I found basil pesto and added a few scoops of that as well. With a little salt and pepper and a few dashes of oregano with a spoonful of minced garlic, my work was well on its way. I let the mixture simmer and the flavors vaporized into smells and I thought that maybe dinner wouldn’t end up so bad after all.

            By the time the pasta was done and the sauce had released its various aromas, both of my roommates had emerged from their rooms and made their ways to the kitchen driven by their curious noses that were forcing them to investigate the sensational smell down the stairs. I mixed the two dishes, the pasta and the sauce, into one large bowl and piled on the Parmesan cheese. Both of my of my roommates stood staring for a moment before diving towards the bowl to help me devour the heaping pile of pasta before us.

            We all sat down together and enjoyed one of those original creations that only exists in the kitchen of a poor college student who scrounges to make something edible with a weird conglomeration of ingredients from a practically empty fridge, and it was great. I wouldn’t call it a culinary masterpiece at all, and I still wouldn’t go so far as to say “I can cook,” but I did realize that I can get by, and pretty well at all. The aromas of basil pesto, onion, garlic, and Parmesan cheese filled our house as we all sat down together for a few good episodes of Family Guy. It had been a rough day at that, but the meal to finish it off really brought things together. Not every Tuesday can be a “Taqueria Tuesday,” and sometimes its better to scrounge with what you’ve got and make the best of it with the people around you.