Tag: food

No comas Taco Bell

The woodchuck smoothed out the carefully preserved catalpa leaf and placed it on the sunny rock. The tree lost its leaves in one big clump in the fall and some of them were as big as beavers; after they dried and shriveled, they looked like sleeping rats. The woodchuck was often startled when she went up to talk to one of them and it turned out to be mulch.

Spread out on her favorite rock, though, it made a perfect tablecloth. The day was warm and sunny for the end of February and since she kept waking up from hibernation screaming with anxiety, she figured she may as well have a picnic. She had saved a tidily wrapped little surprise since the end of summer and now it would be her lunch. 

As she lifted the slightly stale bean burrito to her mouth, salivating at the thought of the delicious cheese, refried beans and sour cream about to coat her taste buds, it was suddenly slapped out her paw with a howling “STOP!”

Shirley stood over her, quivering with indignation as she pointed the burrito at the woodchuck. “Are you kidding me?” she screamed at her cousin. “We talked about this! We are boycotting Taco Bell because they are huge contributors to the campaigns of the very animals who are trying to destroy our forest and democracy!”

The woodchuck watched in horror as Shirley flung the burrito as far as she could, which was only about seven inches because her front paws were quite short.

“I didn’t buy it,” protested the woodchuck. “I found it behind the dumpster next to the Taco Bell. I don’t think that should count–I’m not supporting them; I’m helping with the problem of food waste!”

Shirley seemed temporarily stumped by this statement–it was a loophole she hadn’t anticipated. “I think you’re being disingenuous; it’s the intent behind the boycott that matters. If you care enough about trying to stop the weasel and the muskrat from destroying everything, then you have to be willing to do whatever it takes, no matter how insignificant it seems.”

The woodchuck didn’t know what disingenuous meant but she would never admit that to her cousin. “I am a true supporter! I emptied all the stuffing out of my WalMart bag quilt and threw it away.” She did not mention that her long toenails had ripped a jagged tear in the plastic and that her burrow was now a snow globe of floating feathers.

“I know you’re trying,” sighed Shirley. “We’re all trying. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough, but every little bit helps, I suppose. Are you ready for the big economic blackout tomorrow?”

“Ready!” shouted the woodchuck, although she was surprised to find out it was finally February 28. This had been the longest month in the history of the world. “I will not spend any money on anything and we will take down the large corporations that depend upon our dollars to buy yachts!” 

Shirley seemed pleased with the response and hugged her, neither of them mentioning that they were woodchucks and had no money or opposable thumbs to use credit cards. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved as she left and then thrust a tiny paw in the air. “Cancel your subscription to WaPo! Fuck Jeff Bezos!”

The woodchuck had no idea who Jeff Bezos was, but she nodded enthusiastically. As soon as Shirley was out of sight, she ate the rest of the burrito. It could have used a little more sour cream.

Here is info about the economic blackout, which is on Friday, February 28. So if you need cat food, get it today.

I was very sad to find out that Taco Bell has a high percentage of donations to Republican candidates. RIP, my delicious Caliente Cantina Chicken Quesadilla!

The Five Layer Break Up


(rejected submission to Taco Bell Quarterly—NOT written by the woodchuck)

He was fine.

He hated when people said that. It seemed too easy and kind of dismissive; lazy, even. People were complex beings with a myriad of emotions that fluctuated throughout the day, and answering fine was clearly a way to shut down a discussion that someone did not want to have.

But he was, really. Fine.

The break-up had caught him off guard, although she said that was part of the problem. He wasn’t tapped into her inner thoughts enough to understand how not fine she was. He had hoped the dinner at the fancy restaurant would prove his devotion, although he was a bit stunned at the prices when they got there. He was cautious with his money (she said cheap), but with the Wagyu Char special set at Market Price (a gimmick he felt allowed them to set any amount they wanted), this seemed like a gesture that would prove his devotion. Also, he loved a good steak. 

He had forgotten—or not heard—her say that eating meat was one of the worse contributors to climate change. He assumed that was what the glare directed at him across the table meant as she ate her eighteen-dollar salad. It didn’t even have cucumbers in it, which he found puzzling. He offered her a forkful of his incredibly tender beef and was relieved when she angrily shook her head no. Even at these prices, the food was fantastic.

Later in the evening as they walked in silence, his stomach groaning with the huge lump of meat he had just devoured, she announced she was still hungry. He wanted nothing more than to take his pants off and lay on the couch, but he intuited that would be the wrong response. Still, he couldn’t believe it when she announced she wanted a bean burrito and veered into a Taco Bell.

He had just spent over a hundred dollars on a very expensive meal (plus the eight percent tip which he had felt was generous, as the server had taken forever to bring him the A1 sauce). Now he had to buy her another meal? He felt she was just waiting for him to protest because she still seemed angry, so he took out his wallet and paid for her bean burrito with extra sour cream and jalapenos (he also took this as a sign they were not having sex tonight).

Instead of calming her, the snack seemed to only make her madder, and she bit into it with such fury that the sauce squirted out the back end of the tortilla. A huge dollop of the red liquid landed on her white halter top, and he couldn’t help but laugh because it looked like a nipple.

The burrito was launched with such force that he never saw it coming, and it landed right in the middle of his chest, with beans and sauce and sour cream creating a bas-relief landscape of ingredients across the front of his neatly pressed light blue button down. The refried projectile was followed by a stream of combined profanity and a complete list of all his faults, which mercifully ended when she stormed out.

That had been three months ago. But he was fine, really, he was, he told his mother. She had insisted on coming to the Bay area to check on him, after he had ceased all communications with his parents. Apparently his office had also contacted her to do a well-being check, as he had not been in for weeks and was late on several projects.

Working from home, no one could tell that he was still wearing the burrito-stained button-down shirt from that night because the smell reminded him of her. He had no appetite, but his dreams were filled with images of Cheesy Gorditas, even though he had no idea what those were.

His mother insisted they leave his apartment, which she felt had a rancid bean smell. She had decided they should have a tourist day and had booked a tour of Alcatraz. 

Why she thought touring a hundred-year-old island jail would cheer him up he didn’t know, but as they rode the boat across the sparkling blue water, his mother chattering on about Burt Lancaster and birds, his head felt clearer than it had in months. The air was crisp and the ride bracing, and as the cooling salt spray refreshed his head, he realized that he hadn’t thought of her all day. He was over her. His shirt was a navy polo with no stains on it, and he was looking forward to a juicy burger for lunch with no guilt whatsoever. He really was fine.

They boarded the island amid squawking gulls and walked toward the crumbling buildings. The tour guide recited the history of the famous inmates once housed there as they walked through the cell block and took pictures of each other in the claustrophobic space. As they headed toward the lighthouse, they rounded a corner and his mother started laughing. She pointed at an abandoned guardhouse and shouted, “That one looks just like a Taco Bell!”

He fell to his knees, sobbing. He was in prison and would never get over her.

(Alcatraz, 2015. Photo by C. Broquet)