I suppose it's becoming more and more obvious all the time that we like ourselves some Mexican food around here.
I have many friends who love a good chile relleno, and while I do appreciate them, I tend not to order them because I don't want to miss out on soft tortillas and crisp pico de gallo and cool, crunchy lettuce.
I'm a tacos al carbon girl, as a rule.
They're predicting my fair city to get somewhere between 3 and 4 inches of rain over the next couple of days, which makes this afternoon—with noisy drops falling on my windows and skies sagging and gloomy enough to belie the still-warm temperatures outside—a lovely time to revisit this happy bowl of heat.
Despite my affinity for all manner of rich foods—primarily fried potatoes and melted cheese—I feel equally strongly that there has to be something to break up the heaviness (a vegetable, some shocking spiciness) so that you don't end a meal with a brick in your stomach and a vaguely queasy feeling.
I like fresh tomatoes on my pizza and spinach in my dips and happy, crunchy cabbage in my fried rice. I'm not going to eat an Alfredo sauce unless it has 17 tablespoons of dried crushed red pepper in it.
What do you eat in hospitals, in ICUs and CCUs and PCUs? Who knows. Who cares? There are foods that we call comfort foods, normally the creamy, starchy, cheesy sorts of foods, and I know that I for one turn to them over and over again for all the soothing warmth and fullness that they do provide. But then there are things for which there is no comfort.