While I was microwaving the refried beans, I burst into song. "There's always time for tacooooos, at Taco Time!"
Nathan: Wow, is that their song?
Kimber: No, (smugly) I just made it up!
I think I found my new career: jingle writer. Even though my taco jingle isn't particularly inspiring because it suggests that at places besides Taco Time, there just isn't time for tacos. But that's a dirty falsehood! There's always time for tacos everywhere for everyone. Tacos are a universal truth like that.
A taco experience:
|Mexican bus stop: where friendships are made and catcalls fielded.|
I ate some of the best tacos of my life at a little cinder block taco shack called Tacos Lunas while on my high school senior vacation to Mazatlán, Mexico. Deciding against the tacos de cabeza (brain), I started off with some carne asada tacos and the ubiquitous Jarritos soda (pineapple flavor). Then I got a little more brave--I tried the tacos de lengua (tongue)--I was a senior, after all! After daring to try the lengua tacos and finding them deliciously tender, I thought, "What the heck, I'll try the mad cow tacos, too!"
I was young and invincible. The most important thing on my Creutzfeldt–Jakob-free mind was whether or not to get back together with my boyfriend when I got back to Idaho. I'd spent about 200 pesos calling to wish him happy birthday from the bathroom of the hotel room I was sharing with five of my girlfriends. 200 pesos got me ten awkward minutes of him telling me about a rafting trip he took with another girl, so I didn't feel bad about only getting him some lame dolphin magnet as a souvenir/birthday present. I ate the cabeza tacos. I got back together with my boyfriend. Perhaps the one and only time a taco has forsaken me.