The True Meaning of Tacos

Tacos have, once again, taken over my blog. Obviously, I love tacos. But they are not even my favourite food. I have eaten better food that I cooked for myself during the Plenty cooking project, and in the current Jerusalem cooking project. So far, it’s been about two delicious years, with no sign of stopping. Case in point: the other day I was cleaning out my spices (as per Apartment Therapy’s January Cure) and realized I was running out of oregano. That’s fine, I said to myself. I have more than enough za’atar.

I received the Mennonite Girls Can Cook Celebrations cookbook for Christmas, so Jerusalem might become more Mennonite in the future. Although, as I recently said to someone I work with, if one is Mennonite, and one is cooking, then one’s cooking is, by definition, Mennonite. But varenicke (I have made these). Rollkuchen (I made these once with my mom). Pluma moos. And one day, zweiback. The day I make those will be epic, or a day when I am trying very very very hard to procrastinate. 

What do tacos have to do with any of this? They represent a longing for a different time in my life. When I was in Mexico City, essentially a phone call away from doing something related to comedy with a friend also doing research. Or five steps away from delicious comida corrida. It is as if I live in a parallel universe: I live an easy driving distance away from my most recent city (Toronto), and a sometimes cheap flight away from Mexico City (the alerts I get are a plus/minus in that regard). I am now paid to convince people that Spanish was relevant to their life/academic career. And I live in a town so small that when I go to the much larger town with the grocery store and run an errand at Hobby Lobby against my better judgment (given their lack of support of healthcare laws) I run into one of my students with his girlfriend. Sometimes, the culture shock of the rural Midwest is just too much.



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