Good Salsa Quotes

I’ll be back with the sandwiches,” she said. “But I had some leftover seven-layer dip.” “Yum.” Percy dug in with a tortilla chip. “She’s kinda famous for this, guys.” Sally ruffled his hair. “There’s guacamole, sour cream, refried beans, salsa—” “Seven layers?” I looked up in wonder. “You knew seven is my sacred number? You invented this for me?” Sally wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, actually, I can’t take credit—” “You are too modest!” I tried some of the dip. It tasted almost as good as ambrosia nachos. “You will have immortal fame for this, Sally Jackson!

Because at some point, you do have to rush your own art. Otherwise, your art sits on its butt on the couch eating chips and salsa. However

It was too quiet all evening. I ate cold pizza and drank too much wine. The box said that I should pair it with chimichurri sauce and salsa dancing. The box was going to get British murder shows and like it.

Acid dulls vibrant greens, so wait until the last possible moment to dress salads, mix vinegar into herb salsas, and squeeze lemon over cooked green vegetables such as spinach. On the other hand, acid keeps reds and purples vivid.

After his initial homecoming week, after he'd been taken to a bunch of sights by his cousins, after he'd gotten somewhat used to the scorching weather and the surprise of waking up to the roosters and being called Huascar by everybody (that was his Dominican name, something else he'd forgotten), after he refused to succumb to that whisper that all long-term immigrants carry inside themselves, the whisper that says You do not belong, after he'd gone to about fifty clubs and because he couldn't dance salsa, merengue, or bachata had sat and drunk Presidentes while Lola and his cousins burned holes in the floor, after he'd explained to people a hundred times that he'd been separated from his sister at birth, after he spent a couple of quiet mornings on his own, writing, after he'd given out all his taxi money to beggars and had to call his cousin Pedro Pablo to pick him up, after he'd watched shirtless shoeless seven-year-olds fighting each other for the scraps he'd left on his plate at an outdoor cafe, after his mother took them all to dinner in the Zona Colonial and the waiters kept looking at their party askance (Watch out, Mom, Lola said, they probably think you're Haitian - La unica haitiana aqui eres tu, mi amor, she retorted), after a skeletal vieja grabbed both his hands and begged him for a penny, after his sister had said, You think that's bad, you should see the bateys, after he'd spent a day in Bani (the camp where La Inca had been raised) and he'd taken a dump in a latrine and wiped his ass with a corn cob - now that's entertainment, he wrote in his journal - after he'd gotten somewhat used to the surreal whirligig that was life in La Capital - the guaguas, the cops, the mind-boggling poverty, the Dunkin' Donuts, the beggars, the Haitians selling roasted peanuts at the intersections, the mind-boggling poverty, the asshole tourists hogging up all the beaches, the Xica de Silva novelas where homegirl got naked every five seconds that Lola and his female cousins were cracked on, the afternoon walks on the Conde, the mind-boggling poverty, the snarl of streets and rusting zinc shacks that were the barrios populares, the masses of niggers he waded through every day who ran him over if he stood still, the skinny watchmen standing in front of stores with their brokedown shotguns, the music, the raunchy jokes heard on the streets, the mind-boggling poverty, being piledrived into the corner of a concho by the combined weight of four other customers, the music, the new tunnels driving down into the bauxite earth [...]

There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good . . .” His voice trailed off in the middle of the sentence. Laura found herself caught in the intensity of his gaze and muttered the end of the rhyme. “. . . She was very, very good, and when she was bad . . .” Gabriel finished what he had started, grinning at his own wit. “. . .She was better.” Laura’s eyebrows arched as she hid a quick smile. “That’s not the way I learned it.” Gabriel picked up his fork and dug back into his salsa-spiced eggs. “If you’d been a boy, you would have.

After his initial homecoming week, after he'd been taken to a bunch of sights by his cousins, after he'd gotten somewhat used to the scorching weather and the surprise of waking up to the roosters and being called Huascar by everybody (that was his Dominican name, something else he'd forgotten), after he refused to succumb to that whisper that all long-term immigrants carry inside themselves, the whisper that says You do not belong, after he'd gone to about fifty clubs and because he couldn't dance salsa, merengue, or bachata had sat and drunk Presidentes while Lola and his cousins burned holes in the floor, after he'd explained to people a hundred times that he'd been separated from his sister at birth, after he spent a couple of quiet mornings on his own, writing, after he'd given out all his taxi money to beggars and had to call his cousin Pedro Pablo to pick him up, after he'd watched shirtless shoeless seven-year-olds fighting each other for the scraps he'd left on his plate at an outdoor cafe, after his mother took them all to dinner in the Zona Colonial and the waiters kept looking at their party askance (Watch out, Mom, Lola said, they probably think you're Haitian - La unica haitiana aqui eres tu, mi amor, she retorted), after a skeletal vieja grabbed both his hands and begged him for a penny, after his sister had said, You think that's bad, you should see the bateys, after he'd spent a day in Bani (the camp where La Inca had been raised) and he'd taken a dump in a latrine and wiped his ass with a corn cob - now that's entertainment, he wrote in his journal - after he'd gotten somewhat used to the surreal whirligig that was life in La Capital - the guaguas, the cops, the mind-boggling poverty, the Dunkin' Donuts, the beggars, the Haitians selling roasted peanuts at the intersections, the mind-boggling poverty, the asshole tourists hogging up all the beaches, the Xica de Silva novelas where homegirl got naked every five seconds that Lola and his female cousins were cracked on, the afternoon walks on the Conde, the mind-boggling poverty, the snarl of streets and rusting zinc shacks that were the barrios populares, the masses of niggers he waded through every day who ran him over if he stood still, the skinny watchmen standing in front of stores with their brokedown shotguns, the music, the raunchy jokes heard on the streets, the mind-boggling poverty, being piledrived into the corner of a concho by the combined weight of four other customers, the music, the new tunnels driving down into the bauxite earth,

Our two taco specials get shoved up on the serving counter, crispy, cheesy goodness in brown plastic baskets lined with parchment paper, sour cream and guacamole exactly where they should be. On the side. There is a perfect ratio of sour cream, guac, and salsa on a shredded chicken tostada. No one can make it happen for you. Many restaurants have tried. All have failed. Only the mouth knows its own pleasure, and calibration like Taco Heaven cannot be mass produced. It simply cannot. Taco Heaven is a sensory explosion of flavor that defies logic. First, you have to eye the amount of spiced meat, shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, and tomatillos. You must consider the size and crispiness of the shells. Some people–I call them blasphemers–like soft tacos. I am sitting across from Exhibit A. We won’t talk about soft tacos. They don’t make it to Taco Heaven. People who eat soft tacos live in Taco Purgatory, never fully understanding their moral failings, repeating the same mistakes again and again for all eternity. Like Perky and dating. Once you inventory your meat, lettuce, tomato, and shell quality, the real construction begins. Making your way to Taco Heaven is like a mechanical engineer building a bridge in your mouth. Measurements must be exact. Payloads are all about formulas and precision. One miscalculation and it all fails. Taco Death is worse than Taco Purgatory, because the only reason for Taco Death is miscalculation. And that’s all on you. “Oh, God,” Fiona groans through a mouthful of abomination. “You’re doing it, aren’t you?” “Doing what?” I ask primly, knowing damn well what she’s talking about. “You treat eating tacos like you’re the star of some Mythbusters show.” “Do not.” “Do too.” “Even if I do–and I am notconceding the point–it would be a worthwhile venture.” “You are as weird about your tacos as Perky is about her coffee.” “Take it back! I am not that weird.” “You are.” “Am not.” “This is why Perky and I swore we would never come here with you again.” Fiona grabs my guacamole and smears the rounded scoop all over the outside of her soft taco. I shriek. “How can you do that?” I gasp, the murder of the perfect ratio a painful, almost palpable blow. The mashed avocado has a death rattle that rings in my ears. Smug, tight lips give me a grimace. “See? A normal person would shout, ‘Hey! That’s mine!’ but you’re more offended that I’ve desecrated my inferior taco wrapping with the wrong amount of guac.” “Because it’s wrong.” “You should have gone to MIT, Mal. You need a job that involves nothing but pure math for the sake of calculating stupid shit no one else cares about.” “So glad to know that a preschool teacher holds such high regard for math,” I snark back. And MIT didn’t give me the kind of merit aid package I got from Brown, I don’t add. “Was that supposed to sting?” She takes the rest of my guacamole, grabs a spoon, and starts eating it straight out of the little white paper scoop container thing. “How can you do that? It’s like people who dip their french fries in mayonnaise.” I shudder, standing to get in line to buy more guac. “I dip my french fries in mayo!” “More evidence of your madness, Fi. Get help now. It may not be too late.” I stick my finger in her face. “And by the way, you and Perky talk about my taco habits behind my back? Some friends!” I hmph and turn toward the counter.

She'd just rear-ended a cop car and she said that only the week before she'd been arrested shoplifting tortillas and salsa for a Sunday afternoon football party at her house. ‘This is so not good,’ she told me. ‘Honestly, I have the worst luck.

good. I think I’ll go for the sole almandine with garlic-scape mashed potatoes and pineapple-mango salsa.

said. Karen inhaled deeply and blew until there was no more air in her lungs and smoke filled the room but there wasn’t a single candle still burning. “Never underestimate the power of a strong woman,” she said breathlessly. “Amen,” Hannah murmured. Kim motioned toward the bar. “Momma’s choice tonight. Mexican buffet, which comes before cake.” “Not for me. I’m having a slice of that cake right now. It’s my birthday and I want dessert first. Momma always let me do that on my birthday when I was a little girl,” Karen said. “Yes, I did, and if you want your cake first tonight, then have at it,” Hannah agreed. “Well, I’m getting into those tacos,” Edith said. “Y’all have to try my watermelon salsa. I hadn’t made it in years, but it turned out pretty good considering that the watermelon wasn’t as good as I like it to be.” “What’s in it?” Sue asked.

The sky grows dark over the city as Janey tells me her story. Teh beast was supposed to help their community. Something that would look good in a brochure, I suppose. But instead, it cut loose, took out in to the Williamsburg night. Janey and the kids went after it , and when they finally caught up what does it do? The thing ate a hipster.

I walked to the fridge and slipped the desserts and whipped cream inside, taking a deep breath. "What is that?" I asked, not able to place the smell that still somehow made my stomach growl. "Tacos?" I asked, brows drawn together. "Don't insult me," he said with a smile. "Not an insult. I like tacos." "Okay, next time. This time, we're having wet burritos." "What is a wet burrito?" I asked, propping myself up on the counter and watching as he scooped rice and then a supply of cooked veggies and beans onto the tortilla. "Depends on your taste. But in general, a tortilla filled with rice, veggies, meat, beans, and cheese. Then you roll it up, melt some more cheese on top then add some Pica de Gallo, salsa verde, rojo, or habanero- depending on what heat-level you can take." "That sounds too good to be true," I said, meaning it. "It is. And it goes great with the beer I have cooling in the fridge," he told me, rolling up one burrito and putting a mix of shredded cheeses on top before nuking it for a couple seconds and handing me the plate, gesturing toward the supply of salsas. He wasn't trying to sweep me off my feet with some three-course meal, but he cooked me something that made that frappe foodgasm moan sound tame when I had my first bite. "Oh my God." "I know," he agreed, smiling big at my enjoyment. And I realized with a sort of blinding clarity that I literally couldn't remember the last time I felt quite so content. It wasn't that kind of 'high' you get when something goes right or you achieve something after a long time trying; it was deeper. It was soul deep. I felt it into my marrow. "What's that look for?" he asked as he took my plate and put it beside his on the coffee table. Not sure how to explain it and thinking it was perhaps too soon to even if I could, I took a long swig of my beer and shrugged. "What look?" To that, his lips tipped up devilishly. "You really want to do this again?" "Do what?" I asked as he stood suddenly and walked toward the kitchen. He didn't answer me though as I heard some shuffling before he came walking back with the whipped cream. "Do the 'I am going to get what I want out of you by using sex to do it' thing," he explained as he slammed the can down on the coffee table and moved to stand between it and the couch, reaching down and pulling me onto my feet. "Brant..." I said as his fingers teased up under the material of my tee, running across my lower back and inching it off my skin. "Know what?" he asked as his fingers paused to unclasp my bra. "No, what?" I asked, feeling my chest get heavier as desire started to course through my system. "I'm still hungry," he told me, pulling my shirt until I had no choice but to raise up my hands as he pulled off both my shirt and my bra. "Brant, please..'' "Begging won't help you this time," he informed me as his hands whispered down my belly and unfastened my button and zip before yanking the thick material over my butt then down my thighs. I stepped out of the material as his hands pressed into my hips and pushed me back toward the couch. I had barely sat down before he was grabbing for the whipped cream and shaking the can, eyes devilish, smirk downright sinful. "Lay back," he commanded and I automatically moved to do just that. "Unless you want to end it without all the torture and tell me." Tell him what? I had no idea what I was even supposed to tell him anymore and, honestly, even if I did know what... I was pretty sure I wanted every second of a torment that involved him licking things off my body. I jumped slightly as he circled my nipple with the cold whipped cream, an unexpectedly erotic sensation. He covered both nipples and created a line down the center of my belly and completely covered the skin above my sex. I waited for him to move over me, to kiss me, then move down to my chest.

Good afternoon, residents! A reminder that our salsa dance class starts in ten minutes.” “Shall we go to that, Gram-Gram?” I said. “A lot of times, meeting someone in person is best.” “Only women go to salsa dancing.” “Maybe you should become a lesbian, then. It would solve that pesky life expectancy problem.

to go on adventures with you. -          Music and dancing: these provide an easy excuse to invite her home later (e.g., “Let’s go back to my place, and you can show me some of those salsa dance moves”). -          Where she wants to travel: this provides her with good emotions and gives you an easy chance to bring up possibilities for the future (e.g., “Mexico? That settles it—we’re hopping on a flight tomorrow

Harper knew Wayne Storr must've told the kitchen staff to go all out with this dinner, because she couldn't believe the quality of every course. Seared scallops with charred scallions, slow-cooked lamb shoulder with fennel ricotta, grass-fed rib eye with polenta and salsa verde, finished with a tiramisu that made her eyes roll back in her head. At least, that's what it felt like, and if Manny's rapturous expression was any indication, he liked it too. "That is categorically the best meal I've ever had." He patted his stomach and groaned. "And I'm not going to eat for the next week, so I'm stuffed." "Me too." But she knew a good way to burn off the calories, and she couldn't wait any longer. While the food may have been delicious, watching Manny eat had been torture. His lips wrapping around a scallop, his tongue flicking out to capture a dab of salsa verde on his lip, the small, satisfied groan as he spooned the final scoop of tiramisu into his mouth. He'd driven her slowly but surely crazy. It seemed like the entire meal had been one giant exercise in foreplay, and she'd been patient long enough. Time for dessert. In her case, greed was good.

two or ALL the puppies if I could’ve. But whatever, it was just cool to have puppies in the mall. My sister’s gonna FREAK when I tell her about it. Anyways, Fergus and Annie returned to our tournament table with the biggest plate of nachos I’d ever seen in my whole entire life, so me and Emma went and joined them. The four of us dug into the towering mountain of chips and cheese and chicken and onions and queso and tomatoes and salsa and sour cream and guac and jalapenos and O.M.CHEESE, it was SO good! I filled my belly with warm food and then sat back, watching all the people around the tournament having fun. What a great start to a weekend full of friends, puppies, and video games. I mean, seriously, everything was PERFECT, and there wasn’t a single thing that could change that… And immediately, Annie goes, “It was stolen,” but she didn’t know that! Isn’t it funny how some people go to the worst-case scenario first? That’s called “catastrophic thinking” and helps ABSOLUTELY NOBODY in times of stress. So, until we had more details, I thought it best to simply call the camera “missing.” I ran up to Callie, HOPING that maybe she had taken the camera to a Lost & Found box somewhere inside Hacktronics, but nope. Apparently, they didn’t have one. Not good. That meant somebody MIGHT have stolen it. I went to the other players in the tournament and asked if THEY saw anything suspicious, but nobody did! I just couldn’t believe it! How was it possible that NOBODY saw some fool GANK an $800 camera?? That doesn’t even make any sense! Fergus had completely shut down. Annie was angry at me. And Emma was just caught in the middle of it, sitting there, like, “Awkwaaaaaard.” Then, outta nowhere, Annie let me have it. She shouted a bunch of stuff at me that weren’t the kindest things ever, but I fixed all that through the MAGIC of editing…

For one, the lomo saltado was so delicious I thought I might forget my own name. It was beef tenderloin stir-fried so that the sugars in the marinade caramelized on the outside, making it crispy and chewy and as tender as the name in the middle, on a big blue platter piled high with roasted tomatoes, various salsas and chiles, and crispy fries. The idea was to wrap pieces of beef and the toppings in the scallion pancakes that came along with it. What resulted were flavor bombs, savory and spicy and fatty and crispy, all accentuated by the sweet, tangy pop of tomato. Flakes of scallion pancakes drifted from my lips down to my plate as my teeth crunched through each bite. "I can't even handle how good this is," I said, then swallowed because I couldn't wait to say it. The other two dishes we'd ordered were pretty great, too----a whole branzino marinated and charred so that we picked it clean off its spindly bones and ate it with greens and roasted peppers; a half chicken roasted with aji amarillo chile paste and served over shiitake mushrooms and a lime crema---but the lomo saltado was the true star of the table. I could already picture how it was going to look on my page. The golden-brown fries glistening with oil. The beef shaded from light pink in the center to deep brown on the edges. The ruby red tomatoes nestled among them. And the scallion pancakes serving as a lacy backdrop.

Now to Giant Eagle for some Great Lakes Christmas Ale and snacks, spend a while goofing on difficult chips-and-salsa choices before deciding on Tostito’s “cantina-style” all around, then drive the 30 yards to the state store where you check the vodka selection even though you brought a gift bottle of Śliwowica and they have nothing of interest anyway, no good Polish vods and you know American Żubrówka is a poor heavy-chemical substitute.

Well, I like you in either form,” she said, giving me a shy smile. “In fact, sometimes I like your wolf form better. He’s more cuddly.” “Oh, too bad about that.” I shook my head. “I can change right now for you but I’m afraid it might ruin our plans for the evening.” “Plans?” She looked at me doubtfully. “We have plans?” “Uh-huh. How do you feel about salsa dancing?” She bit her lip. “Um… it sounds great but… you dance? Really?” I gave her my best mock offended look. “I’m not as much of a Neanderthal as you want to believe. Yeah, I dance. I’m pretty fucking good at it, if I say so myself.” “Well, I’m not any good at it but I’m willing to give it a try.” Her face fell. “Only I don’t have anything to wear.” “Yes, you do.” I went back out to the porch and picked up the package I’d left outside earlier. “Hope you like it,” I said as she ripped into it eagerly. “My sister picked it out. She owns a boutique in Tallahassee.” “Oh!” she exclaimed as the dress my big sister had picked came into view. It was a short, shimmery thing with a draped top and a low cut back. There were shoes to match too—strappy little heels that would make her long, lovely legs look like they went on forever. I couldn’t wait to see her in them. That is, if she would wear the clothes and shoes my sister had picked—I wasn’t so sure because suddenly Taylor had tears in her eyes. “You don’t like the outfit?” I asked anxiously. “I can send it back. I—” “No, no—I love it.” She sniffed and blotted her eyes with a paper towel from the holder. “It’s just… so sweet. And it’s the first time someone else has picked my clothes in years and got me something I really wanted to wear. Thank you, Victor.” She put the box with the clothes and shoes on the counter and stood on tiptoe to put her arms around my neck. “You’re so sweet to me,” she whispered in my ear. “So sweet and kind and generous.” “You deserve it,” I said gruffly, hugging her back.

Once, when we were both in the same South Carolina restaurant, Tancredo sent my table an order of chips and salsa, meaning I’m not sure what. I guess he thought that since I didn’t want to kick out of the country every Mexican-born immigrant, I must like chips and salsa.

Proximity to livestock and animal feces, I have found in my travels, is not necessarily an indicator of a bad meal. More often than not, in recent experience, it's an early indicator of something good on the way. Why is that? It might have to do with the freshness question. Still living close to the source of your food, you often don't have a refrigerator or freezer. Equipment and conditions are primitive. You can't be lazy - because no option other than the old ways exists Where there are freezers and refrigerators, laziness follows, the compromises and slow encroachment of convenience. Why spend all day making mole when you can make a jumbo batch and freeze it? Why make salsa every day when it lasts OK in the fridge? Try a salsa or a sauce hand-ground with a stone mortar and pestle and you'll see what I mean.

Sometimes you make it sound like I'm a snake-oil salesman." I grab his arm. "That's not what I meant at all." "Then what do you mean?" he asks. "I mean that you're nice," I say. He laughs. "This again." "I mean," I say, more fervently, "you're probably the only person I've ever met who's genuinely curious about everyone he meets. And makes them feel interesting and welcome, and like–like they should be confident in what they do. You make them feel like growing corn or making cherry salsa or recommending books is a superpower." "If you're good at those things," he says, "It is.