Salsa Dip 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!

A bottle of wine. A family-sized packet of Nacho Cheese Flavoured Tortilla Chips and a jar of hot salsa dip. A packet of cigarettes on the side (I know, I know). The rain hammering against the windows. And a book. What could have been lovelier?

He takes a big chip, dips it in the salsa, bites off half, and double dips. That’s right. He just offended Jerry Seinfeld and the crew with one bite.

Jessica guffawed. “Well, almost every need. It will be every need when we walk in the door and they have gorgeous men waiting for us as well.” “Nope, not happening.” Cassandra took a chip, dipped it in the salsa,and popped it in her mouth. “Not interested in a relationship. Men are high maintenance, and relationships only bring pain.” Jessica flicked a chip across the table at her and sat back in her chair. Her expression became sober as she looked at her best friend. “Seriously Cassie, you don’t believe that.

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.

Her father selected a slice of cheek from the bloody stew of body parts in the bag and went inside the house to take a pee and find some salsa for dipping.“ Popping a chocolate eyeball between her black teeth, her mother knew something was very wrong with her daughter. Norma had barely touched the juicy tongue with some of the roots still attached that most witches would crawl into bed with the devil for,

She pulled out a few tortilla chips from a nearby shelf, dipping one deeply and popping it in her mouth, then holding out the jar so Daniel could do the same. She was hit with the summery peach and brown sugar that sweetened the tomatoes, and then the heat built, numbing her tongue from the back to the front. She swallowed, eyes watering, and looked at Daniel, who already had his mouth open trying to cool it off. Most Wisconsinites couldn't hold their heat, so she wouldn't be able to use it straight, but there were some nice flavors in there. "Here." She handed him a yogurt smoothie she kept in the fridge for days when she didn't have time to make a sandwich for herself. "Sorry, G. I thought it would be delicious." He had an easy manner, bordering on shy, but with a strong thoughtful streak. Gina appreciated his amiable company. "Ye of little faith. It has great flavor. It would be a shame to waste it. Have a seat and give me a few minutes." Daniel settled on the overturned five-gallon bucket she used as a chair when it was slow. "Tell me about what you were doing in Texas," she said. "My sister and her family live near Austin. I try to get down and visit her once a winter. It's a nice break from the cold." While he spoke she worked, mixing the salsa into cream cheese to cut the heat. She had some cornbread that she had made herself so it was the right texture to cut into slices- it would be the perfect accompaniment. She warmed up a little slow-cooked pork, tossing it with the peach salsa cream cheese mix, and put it between the cornbread slices with some shredded Monterey Jack, grilling it with butter to give the bread a crisp crunch.

A salsa is easy to make too. Just chop some plum tomatoes with scallions, add a touch of chopped chili pepper if desired, add a tablespoon of almond butter and some soft red beans from a box, mix it all together, add some dried currants, and you have a great dip that will last for days.

Your paperwork in, it’s like the morning after a party, the shaken survey of damage, a waste of bottles where there was laughter. It all seems so much more than you can manage: the accusing cups and stubbed-out cigarettes, the sun assaulting the window, your throbbing head. It’s not enough to face your own regrets (though they’re coming back fast, the things you said) because someone’s trailed bean dip across the table, someone’s ground salsa in the rug with his shoe. So you start to clean, as much as you are able, and think how far those hours have fled from you, before the hangover and your sour tongue, when you felt lovely, and infinite, and young.