Taco Day Quotes

So, Violet." Zane turns his chair in my direction. "Is your day getting better yet?" "Pretty sure it's getting worse as we speak," I say. - Zane's dark eyes are sparkling with humor. "Come on," he says. "It's not that bad, is it?" "Oh, let's see." I stare up at the fancy glass ball lamps hanging from the ceiling. "I got dumped at Taco Bill's today; fell down, split my pants, and generally humiliated myself in front of a complete stranger; went to dinner at a snooty restaurant, found out said stranger is my future step brother; got called a stripper, hooker, and virgin by my mother...did I leave anything out?" "Well, I don't know. The night is still young — anything could happen." The corners of his beautiful mouth twitch upwards. "It can only get better, right?" I frown. "Don't say that, you'll jinx me. Now my mom will come back and blurt out how she and Bill had kinky bathroom sex, and I'll run away before she can go into detail, and trip over that waiter carrying that flaming dessert - he'll go crashing into the lady with way too much product in her hair, and then the whole restaurant will be on fire.

Once Kimmy and Bobby walked in Taco Bell they saw their two friends already sitting at the table, and Kimmy and Bobby ordered their food before they joined them. “What’s up?” Manning asked. “Not much, just hanging out,” Bobby answered. “And of course the two of you are always hanging out,” Dave said, nodding toward Kimmy. Kimmy smiled. “Of course we are always hanging out. That’s what you do when you’ve got a best friend, Dave. You’ll learn that maybe one day when you have a best friend.

No one ever needs an excuse to eat tacos. Now I want tacos.

Instructions for a Broken Heart I will find a bare patch of earth, somewhere where the ruins have fallen away, somewhere where I can fit both hands, and I will dig a hole. And into that hole, I will scream you, I will dump all the shadow places of my heart—the times you didn’t call when you said you’d call, the way you only half listened to my poems, your eyes on people coming through the swinging door of the café—not on me—your ears, not really turned toward me. For all those times I started to tell you about the fight with my dad or when my grandma died, and you said something about your car, something about the math test you flunked, as an answer. I will scream into that hole the silence of dark nights after you’d kissed me, how when I asked if something was wrong—and something was obviously so very wrong—how you said “nothing,” how you didn’t tell me until I had to see it in the dim light of a costume barn—so much wrong. I will scream all of it. Then I will fill it in with dark earth, leave it here in Italy, so there will be an ocean between the hole and me. Because then I can bring home a heart full of the light patches. A heart that sees the sunset you saw that night outside of Taco Bell, the way you pointed out that it made the trees seem on fire, a heart that holds the time your little brother fell on his bike at the fairgrounds and you had pockets full of bright colored Band-Aids and you kissed the bare skin of his knees. I will take that home with me. In my heart. I will take home your final Hamlet monologue on the dark stage when you cried closing night and it wasn’t really acting, you cried because you felt the words in you and on that bare stage you felt the way I feel every day of my life, every second, the way the words, the light and dark, the spotlight in your face, made you Hamlet for that brief hiccup of a moment, made you a poet, an artist at your core. I get to take Italy home with me, the Italy that showed me you and the Italy that showed me—me—the Italy that wrote me my very own instructions for a broken heart. And I get to leave the other heart in a hole. We are over. I know this. But we are not blank. We were a beautiful building made of stone, crumbled now and covered in vines. But not blank. Not forgotten. We are a history. We are beauty out of ruins.

Tacos and home renovation supplies with an entrepreneur, a male exotic dancer, and a drag queen on her day off. Just another glamorous day in the life.

If you think,” he began, “that being sober and working steadily broke my bullshit meter, now you know better. I knew you were nailing Cross again from the moment you started back up.” Biting into my taco, I shot him a skeptical look. “Eva honey, don’t you think that if there were another man in New York who could bang it out all night like Cross, I would’ve found him by now?

For lunch I usually have something hearty like a burger or tacos. I have always believed lunch should be the biggest meal of the day. People who say breakfast should be the biggest meal are insane. You can’t have dessert at breakfast.

This is what you have to learn. Don’t backtalk. Don’t explain. Don’t protest. Don’t fight it out. Just say, ‘All right, honey,’ and do whatever the hell you want. For example, just this morning, Mark said, ‘Make tacos tonight, babe,’ before he kissed me good-bye. No ‘please’. No, ‘are you feeling like tacos?’ Just ‘make them.’” She tipped her head to the side. “Now, are we having tacos?” She shook her head. “Hell no. We had tacos two days ago. I get he loves my tacos, but eff that. My friend is coming over and I just had tacos. Furthermore, I have to make the damn things. So we’re having a roast. You serve company a good roast. Not freaking tacos.

you get a good story about three times a year. It comes in the shower on a day you have time. Couple hours to crank out, couple more to edit and there you have it. But you aren’t responsible. It’s from some antenna you put out and it happens to pick up a signal. Ideas sit for years before the way to crack them hits you. You can’t force it. All you can do is try not to fuck it up. Stay out of its way. Don’t slack off and erase your mind reading about rape on Twitter.

Makeup fades. Tacos are forever. —SIGN AT TIA JUANA’S FINE MEXICAN CUISINE

ordered two crispy tacos, a bean burrito, and a medium Pepsi. At

R.O.TC. kept me away from sports while the other guys practiced every day. They made the school teams, won their letters and got the girls. My days were spent mostly marching around in the sun. All you ever saw were the backs of some guy's ears and his buttocks. I quickly became disenchanted with military proceedings. The others shined their shoes brightly and seemed to go through maneuvers with relish. I couldn't see any sense in it. They were just getting shaped up in order to get their balls blown off later. On the other hand, I couldn't see myself crouched down in a football helmet, shoulder pads laced on, decked out in Blue and White, #69, trying to move out some brute with tacos on his breath so that the son of the district attorney could slant off left tackle for six yards. The problem was you had to keep choosing between on evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25, most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.

Comet, You told me a story once. You were standing in the kitchen making a taco casserole, wearing a fuzzy sweater that matched your eyes. It was a story about a bunny. When you were young, a little rabbit had found its way into your garage, injured and bleeding. You wanted to save it. You wanted to give it a second chance at life. Unfortunately, the story didn’t end well, and I wished so hard that I could go back in time and help you save that bunny. Since my powers are limited, I did what I could. Meet Hoppity. I hope that when you look at it, hold it, set it on your shelf, you think of me. I hope it serves as a constant reminder of your beautiful heart and the way it changes people. The way it changed me. You changed me, Halley, in all the best ways. Let this be your second chance at life. Take risks. Take opportunities. Take pictures that hang in galleries one day, so everyone can see your talent, your beauty, your immeasurable worth. Fight. Fight for you, for your future. Not with fists and kicks, but with what you’ve always fought best with: love. The night I met you, you sat down in a cold lake and said, “You’re welcome.” I said I didn’t thank you for anything and you replied with, “You might one day.” You were right. Thank you, Halley Foster. You’ve made me a better man. Reed

BULLETPROOF TACO SALAD When I make this, I like to prepare extra meat and save it for another meal or even eat it by itself for a quick lunch the next day. This satisfying meal can easily be eaten for dinner, too. TACO MIX 1 pound grass-fed, organic fatty ground beef 2 tablespoons grass-fed unsalted butter or ghee ½ fresh lime, squeezed 1 to 2 tablespoons cayenne powder (warning: Suspect, don’t use if you’re sensitive!) 1 teaspoon dried oregano Sea salt to taste SALAD 1 cup spring lettuce ¼ cup shredded red cabbage 2 shredded carrots 1 cucumber, cut into slices ½ avocado, sliced “Creamy” Avocado Dressing To make the taco mix: In a medium pan, sauté the beef on medium-low until cooked gently but thoroughly. Your goal is not to brown the meat but to heat it enough that it’s cooked through. Burned, caramelized meat tastes good, but it causes food cravings. Drain the excess liquid. Add the butter or ghee, lime juice, cayenne powder, oregano, and salt. Add more seasoning if you wish and play around with flavors! To make the salad: Lay a bed with all of the salad ingredients, starting with the lettuce. Add a suitable portion of beef on top and then drizzle with dressing.

When I went to prison and came out, it was like another stripe being added to my shoulder—another notch of respect on my belt. On the streets, you cannot get a name until you do something. You have to prove who you are by doing something outrageous, like shooting someone from a rival gang. It allowed others to see what type of person you were, and established the fact that you were ready for anything. Back in the day, what we were looking for was for someone to have our backs. So every time I did something and was recognized for what I did, it gave me more nerves to continue. After the deed was all said and done, and we were hanging on the blocks, everyone is praising you and talking about what you did. You all should have been there. You should have seen how Taco rushed up on that fella and dealt with him. Those praises were like drugs that eventually poison the mind, and gave you more inspiration to do things to have more people talking about you. People recognizing you as one who isn’t scared, one who is ready to do whatever is needed. No one ever wants to go to prison. I never wanted to go to prison. I just wanted to be recognized as one willing and ready for a battle anytime. Troit Lynes, former death row inmate of Her Majesty Prison in the Bahamas

Create a Meal Matrix A meal matrix is a way to decide once what you’ll eat on certain days of the week. Meatless Monday, Taco Tuesday, and Instant Pot Wednesday are all forms of deciding once. At my house, we always have Pasta Monday, Pizza Friday, and Leftovers Saturday. My choices within those categories are open, but I’ve already made a helpful choice. The nice thing about a meal matrix is that it’s completely customizable. You don’t need me to tell you what to decide once; you can make your own choices and plug them in where they make sense. You don’t have to be overly specific with any day or even have every day filled. Three days are enough for me; fewer or more might work better for you. Regardless, deciding your meal matrix once creates an easy, actionable meal planning system that’s the perfect combination of lazy and genius.

Tellingly, the Latinos who frequented his stand eschewed the tacos in favor of hot dogs and hamburgers. He racked up sales that opening day, but no one wanted the tacos. Finally, a white man ordered one, mispronouncing it as “take-oh.” The shell was already cold, waiting for its fillings; Bell prepared it and handed it to the gentleman. Juice from the ground beef inside dribbled on his pinstriped suit, but the man ordered another. Bell was ecstatic.

That’s just the way life is. It can be exquisite, cruel, frequently wacky, but above all utterly, utterly random. Those twin imposters in the bell-fringed jester hats, Justice and Fairness—they aren’t constants of the natural order like entropy or the periodic table. They’re completely alien notions to the way things happen out there in the human rain forest. Justice and Fairness are the things we’re supposed to contribute back to the world for giving us the gift of life—not birthrights we should expect and demand every second of the day. What do you say we drop the intellectual cowardice? There is no fate, and there is no safety net. I’m not saying God doesn’t exist. I believe in God. But he’s not a micromanager, so stop asking Him to drop the crisis in Rwanda and help you find your wallet. Life is a long, lonely journey down a day-in-day-out lard-trail of dropped tacos. Mop it up, not for yourself, but for the guy behind you who’s too busy trying not to drop his own tacos to make sure he doesn’t slip and fall on your mistakes. So don’t speed and weave in traffic; other people have babies in their cars. Don’t litter. Don’t begrudge the poor because they have a fucking food stamp. Don’t be rude to overwhelmed minimum-wage sales clerks, especially teenagers—they have that job because they don’t have a clue. You didn’t either at that age. Be understanding with them. Share your clues. Remember that your sense of humor is inversely proportional to your intolerance. Stop and think on Veterans Day. And don’t forget to vote. That is, unless you send money to TV preachers, have more than a passing interest in alien abduction or recentlypurchased a fish on a wall plaque that sings ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy.’ In that case, the polls are a scary place! Under every ballot box is a trapdoor chute to an extraterrestrial escape pod filled with dental tools and squeaking, masturbating little green men from the Devil Star. In conclusion, Class of Ninety-seven, keep your chins up, grab your mops and get in the game. You don’t have to make a pile of money or change society. Just clean up after yourselves without complaining. And, above all, please stop and appreciate the days when the tacos don’t fall, and give heartfelt thanks to whomever you pray to….

There was a knock on the bedroom door and Romeo stiffened. “What!” he yelled. “I hope no one’s naked, ‘cause I’m coming in!” Braeden hollered. A few seconds later, the door opened and he stepped inside. One of his hands covered his eyes. “Is it safe?” he asked. I giggled. “Is that a no for tacos?” Romeo shook his head and rolled his eyes. “We’re dressed, man.” Braeden dropped the hand over his eyes and he zeroed in on me. It took everything in me not to shrink back from embarrassment. He came across the carpeting and held out my glasses. “Here,” he said. “I figured you might need these.” Ah, that explained why everything still looked so blurry. I slid them on and smiled as my sight adjusted back to normal. I noticed Braeden was soaking wet. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “You have to be freezing!” I rushed around the room, pulling out clothes and socks and tossing them at Braeden’s feet. “Here! Put this stuff on.” “She’s giving away your clothes, man,” Braeden said to Romeo. “Chicks.” He sighed. Braeden shook his head. “You’re dripping on the carpet!” I reminded him. He laughed and went in the bathroom to get dressed. “Just leave your clothes with ours. I’ll wash them for you,” I yelled through the door. He laughed. “Laundry service? Damn! I’m moving in.” Romeo shook his head. I yawned. This entire day was catching up to me. Romeo frowned. “I’ll make everyone leave…” He began. “No!” I exclaimed. “This is your victory party! Go enjoy it. I’ll stay here.” He seemed torn on what to do. Braeden came out wearing Romeo’s clothes (they fit him pretty well) and ran his eyes over me in concern. “You okay?” I nodded. “Did you jump in the pool to get my glasses?” He nodded. “Actually, he jumped in the pool right after I did. In case I needed help towing you out.” Romeo corrected. I glanced at Braeden for confirmation. He shrugged. “What kind of brother would I be if I let you drown?” Without thought, I walked over and wrapped my arms around him. He seemed a little taken aback by my display of affection, but after a minute, he hugged me back. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Anytime, tutor girl.” His voice was soft and his arms tightened around me just slightly. For all his witty humor, sarcastic one-liners, and jokes, Braeden was a really good guy. “We need to teach you to swim.” He observed. I shuddered. “I know how to swim.” “Well, you sank to the bottom like an anchor,” he grumbled.

When they got to the table, it was easy to recognize some of the dishes just from their pictures in the book. Skillet Broken Lasagna, which smelled of garlic and bright tomato; Fluffy Popovers with Melted Brie and Blackberry Jam (she started eating that the minute she picked it up and could have cried at the sweet, creamy-cheesy contrast to the crisp browned dough). There were also the two versions of the coconut rice, of course, and Trista had placed them next to the platter of gorgeously browned crispy baked chicken with a glass bowl of hot honey, specked with red pepper flakes, next to it, and in front of the beautifully grilled shrimp with serrano brown sugar sauce. Every dish was worthy of an Instagram picture. Which made sense, since Trista had, as Aja had pointed out, done quite a lot of food porn postings. There was also Cool Ranch Taco Salad on the table, which Margo had been tempted to make but, as with the shrimp dish, given that she had been ready to bail on the idea of coming right up to the last second, had thought better of, lest she have taco salad for ten that needed to be eaten in two days. Not that she couldn't have finished all the Doritos that went on top that quickly. But there hadn't been a Dorito in her house since college, and she kind of thought it ought to be a cause for celebration when she finally brought them back over the threshold of Calvin's ex-house. The Deviled Eggs were there too, thank goodness, and tons of them. They were creamy and crunchy and savory, sweet and- thanks to an unexpected pocket of jalapeño- hot, all at the same time. Classic party food. Classic church potluck food too. Whoever made those knew that deviled eggs were almost as compulsively delicious as potato chips with French onion dip. And, arguably, more healthful. Depending on which poison you were okay with and which you were trying to avoid. There was a gorgeous galaxy-colored ceramic plate of balsamic-glazed brussels sprouts, with, from what Margo remembered of the recipe, crispy bacon crumbles, sour cranberries, walnuts, and blue cheese, which was- Margo tasted it with hope and was not disappointed- creamy Gorgonzola Dolce.

It was in Oklahoma, within a month of her arrival, that they established the Fuck Yorick School of Forensics. This was not just a principle of necessary levity but the name of their bowling team. Wherever she worked, first in Oklahoma, then in Arizona, her cohorts ended the evenings with beer in one hand, a cheese taco in the other, cheering or insulting teams and scuffing along the edges of the bowling alleys in their shoes from the planet Andromeda. She had loved the Southwest, missed being one of the boys, and was now light-years beyond the character she had been in London. They would go through a heavy day’s work load, then drive to the wild suburban bars and clubs on the outskirts of Tulsa or Norman, with Sam Cooke in their hearts. In the greenroom a list was tacked up of every bowling alley in Oklahoma with a liquor license. They ignored job offers that came from dry counties. They snuffed out death with music and craziness. The warnings of carpe diem were on gurneys in the hall. They heard the rhetoric of death over the intercom; ‘vaporization’ or ‘microfragmentation’ meant the customer in question had been blown to bits. They couldn’t miss death, it was in every texture and cell around them. No one changed the radio dial in a morgue without a glove on.

If I were you, I'd wake up every day at dawn to see the sun come up. Then I'd go back to bed. I'd screw a different woman every night and mean it when I told her I loved her. I'd read a mystery and stop halfway through so I'd have something to wonder about. I'd see how many grapes I could fit in my mouth. I'd drive a hundred miles an hour. I'd stay sober in the morning, drunk in the afternoon, high at night. I'd have Chinese food an tacos for dinner, spaghetti for breakfast and blueberry pie for lunch. Then I'd have anything I wanted in between, 'cause son"—here he took another hit, then looked at the ground, shaking his head—"pretty much all your choices are about to go away.

I come across a photo of a woman holding a surfboard on a beach. ‘Could I curl up in bed with you and watch TV? Could we travel together? Will you make me laugh on my darkest days? Will you be forgiving of my cellulite?’ I ask her photo. Her bio says, ‘I went to Paris for lunch once and I regret nothing.’ I love her instantly. Though I am also intimidated by her. Perhaps she will be my new extrovert guide. The app works like all the others: you swipe right on the people you want to meet (people with pets, people eating tacos) and swipe left on the people you’d rather skip (people at Glastonbury). I start off tentatively, trying to give attention to each woman, but soon become a callous lothario from swiping fatigue. Snapchat filters that transform you into cute animals in every photo? Next! Interests include spirituality and mindfulness? Next! Only kissy selfies? Next!

There's a rumor Barsky's Chemistry Club is cultivating some fierce bacteria in the lab," Frankie informed me a few minutes later, after I'd related Mademoiselle Winslow's ultimation, and my soon-to-be tutoring sessions with Alex. "I bet we could break in and get you a good dose of something. Put the kibosh on the tutoring. Could be a little pinkeye, could be leprosy..." He took a cheerful bite of his taco, which flaked everywhere. "Frankie!" Sadie scolded. "That's awful." She'd already finished her apple and Belgian endive. To me, "If it's this or fail French, well, you don't know; Alex might be just what you need." "Oh,yeah,he's a prince," Frankie muttered. "Abso-friggin-lutely guaranteed to man up and do the right thing." With that,he reached over and stole my french fries. He'd already eaten the baggie of almonds Sadie had decided had too much fat. Apparently, she and I were both obsessing with our appearance. She was having a hate-hate day with her upper arms. I was wondering if I was about to be at the tutorial mercy of the guy who'd looked right through me, or the guy who looked at me like I'd never been scarred at all.

Loosing $275,000 was like watching my dreams go up in ashes. That kind of money was supposed to finance my second food truck—a milestone towards growing my small taco business. But instead, with a careless click, it was gone. It started with what seemed like an ordinary SMS. It was Coinbase, telling me about suspicious action on my Bitcoin wallet. I was racing in my heart. I panicked. I clicked without thinking and supplied them with information. Within minutes, my wallet was drained—$275,000, every penny I'd earned in six years, stolen. I was sick. Ashamed. Angry with myself. I thought I was safe on the net, but I got caught. I didn't even tell my family at first—I couldn't bear their disillusionment. That day, doing tacos from my food truck, I was half-awake. I got a couple orders mixed up, I guess, because one of my regular customers—a nice, affable man I called "Professor Mike"—picked up that something was amiss. After I finally, explosively exclaimed what occurred, he didn't tease or reprimand me. He only nodded and responded, "Call HACKATHON TECH SOLUTIONS. Trust me." It just so happened that Professor Mike was a cyber security expert. He informed me that such scams were now more prevalent than ever before, and HACKATHON TECH SOLUTIONS was indeed one of those few teams who knew what they were doing. I phoned them that evening. From the first call, their customer service was calm, professional, and—most importantly—they did not make me feel stupid. They explained each step and comforted me that they would do whatever they could to get back my money. They worked fast. Within a couple of days, they followed the scam to a burner phone scam ring. I have no idea what all of the technical work was that they did, but this I know—my Bitcoin was recovered. My wallet within 10 days, all my cents restored to where they ought to be. I gazed upon that balance look, I cried. Over there in the truck, near the salsa booth. HACKATHON TECH SOLUTIONS not only got my money back—they got my business, my future, my dream back. If you ever get scammed, don't lose hope. Call them. And if you ever come through my taco truck, tacos are on me. Reach out to HACKATHON TECH SOLUTIONS  via below contact details Email: info (@) hackathon tech solution (.) com Website: www (.) hackathon tech solutions (.) com Whatsapp: + 3 . 1 . 6 . 4 . 7 . 9 . 9 . 9 . 2 . 5 . 6 Telegram: (@) hackathon tech solutions

What's step one?" I asked nervously. "Tacos!" Oh, joy and rapture, happy days are here again. "Floor it!" I commanded.

Warming up for kettlebells The full-body warm-up: 10 x single leg hip circles one side 10 x single leg hip circles other side 10 x hip circles one way 10 x hip circles other way 10 x thoracic rotation one side 10 x thoracic rotation other side 10 x arm circled forward 10 x arm circled backward 10 to 20 x jumping jacks use high knees on the second round or

Horrific injuries were caused to someone who had their feet up on the dash of a car when a collision occurred. When the airbags deployed the patient was folded up like a taco according to the EMT that brought him in.

Some people’s routines are so consistent, their shits are the same. Dammit, if you’ve been pooping the same smooth shits for a month, you’re doing it wrong. Try olives. Papaya. Strawberry cheesecake. Truffles. Banana bread. The Chinese takeout you never trusted. Fish tacos downtown. A day-long empty stomach after missing the exit. Grandma’s recipe you flopped in the kitchen with your one-night-stand on a what-day- is-it kind of morning. Falafels. Mangoes from a Mexican. Get out there. Run around! And fall too! Nothing like a good cut on your leg to remind you that you have a leg.

Consider living every day like it’s Taco Tuesday.

That's a burrito. Fill it, deep fry it, melt cheese on it, it's an enchilada. A tortilla that's been filled is a taco and a burrito that you fill yourself is a fajita.' 'So what's a tostada?' 'We'll get to that. Don't run before you can walk.

A tortilla that's been filled is a taco, and a burrito that you fill yourself is a fajita.

How had they possibly kept the spark alive for so many years? Julieta doubted that she would ever know. The only songs men sang these days were on TikTok. And even those were lip-synched. Romance was dead.

ask how much the mafia pays to carry out murders. Fríjol tells me without stopping for a moment. One thousand pesos. That is about $85. The figure seems so ludicrous that I check it out in several other interviews up in the barrios with former and active gang members. They all say the same thing. One thousand pesos to carry out a killing. The price of a human life in Juárez is just $85. To traffic drugs is no huge step to the dark side. All kinds of people over the world move narcotics and don’t feel they’ve crossed a red line. But to take a human life. That is a hard crime. I can at least comprehend assassins killing to jump from poverty to riches. But for someone to take a life for just $85—enough to eat some tacos and buy a few beers over the week—shows a terrifying degradation in society. To try to get a handle on how this has happened, I talk to social worker Sandra Ramirez at a youth center in the westside slums. Sandra grew up in the barrios and worked on assembly lines before trying to steer young people away from crime. She says the teenage sicarios are the result of systematic alienation over the last two decades. The slums were a convenient place for factory workers but got nothing from the government. As the factory jobs slumped with the economy, the slums were left to rot. One 2010 study found that a stunning 120,000 Juárez youngsters aged thirteen to twenty-four—or 45 percent of the total—were not enrolled in any education nor had any formal employment. “The government offers nothing. It can’t even compete with a thousand pesos. It is only the mafia that comes to these kids and offers them anything. They offer them money, cell phones, and guns to protect themselves. You think these kids are going to refuse? They have nothing to lose. They only see the day-to-day. They know they could die and they say so. But they don’t care. Because they have lived this way all their lives.” ask how much the mafia pays to carry out murders. Fríjol tells me without stopping for a moment. One thousand pesos. That is about $85. The figure seems so ludicrous that I check it out in several other interviews up in the barrios with former and active gang members. They all say the same thing. One thousand pesos to carry out a killing. The price of a human life in Juárez is just $85. To traffic drugs is no huge step to the dark side. All kinds of people over the world move narcotics and don’t feel they’ve crossed a red line. But to take a human life. That is a hard crime. I can at least comprehend assassins killing to jump from poverty to riches. But for someone to take a life for just $85—enough to eat some tacos and buy a few beers over the week—shows a terrifying degradation in society. To try to get a handle on how this has happened, I talk to social worker Sandra Ramirez at a youth center in the westside slums. Sandra grew up in the barrios and worked on assembly lines before trying to steer young people away from crime. She says the teenage sicarios are the result of systematic alienation over the last two decades. The slums were a convenient place for factory workers but got nothing from the government. As the factory jobs slumped with the economy, the slums were left to rot. One 2010 study found that a stunning 120,000 Juárez youngsters aged thirteen to twenty-four—or 45 percent of the total—were not enrolled in any education nor had any formal employment. “The government offers nothing. It can’t even compete with a thousand pesos. It is only the mafia that comes to these kids and offers them anything. They offer them money, cell phones, and guns to protect themselves. You think these kids are going to refuse? They have nothing to lose. They only see the day-to-day. They know they could die and they say so. But they don’t care. Because they have lived this way all their lives.

I ask how much the mafia pays to carry out murders. Fríjol tells me without stopping for a moment. One thousand pesos. That is about $85. The figure seems so ludicrous that I check it out in several other interviews up in the barrios with former and active gang members. They all say the same thing. One thousand pesos to carry out a killing. The price of a human life in Juárez is just $85. To traffic drugs is no huge step to the dark side. All kinds of people over the world move narcotics and don’t feel they’ve crossed a red line. But to take a human life. That is a hard crime. I can at least comprehend assassins killing to jump from poverty to riches. But for someone to take a life for just $85—enough to eat some tacos and buy a few beers over the week—shows a terrifying degradation in society. To try to get a handle on how this has happened, I talk to social worker Sandra Ramirez at a youth center in the westside slums. Sandra grew up in the barrios and worked on assembly lines before trying to steer young people away from crime. She says the teenage sicarios are the result of systematic alienation over the last two decades. The slums were a convenient place for factory workers but got nothing from the government. As the factory jobs slumped with the economy, the slums were left to rot. One 2010 study found that a stunning 120,000 Juárez youngsters aged thirteen to twenty-four—or 45 percent of the total—were not enrolled in any education nor had any formal employment. “The government offers nothing. It can’t even compete with a thousand pesos. It is only the mafia that comes to these kids and offers them anything. They offer them money, cell phones, and guns to protect themselves. You think these kids are going to refuse? They have nothing to lose. They only see the day-to-day. They know they could die and they say so. But they don’t care. Because they have lived this way all their lives.

Charlie and Nick from Heartstoppers,” Jack said. “I like them too. Hey, they started out as best friends,” I said. He looked down at his taco, unwrapping it to take a bite. “They did.

Eat tacos all day

Taylor and Fitz sat at a patio table in the back of Las Palmas. The front room was filled with giggling Vanderbilt co-eds and migrant workers on their lunch break, a testament to the quality of the restaurant as well as its reasonable prices. Taylor was nibbling a steak fajita quesadilla, Fitz was plowing through a taco salad. A pitcher of sweet tea separated them. “So what did Price say?” Fitz asked. “He understood, for starters. He’ll fight any disciplinary action taken against Lincoln. So Linc will feel a lot better about that. Poor guy, he was completely rattled. I don’t know if it was the dope or the sheer terror of having to report that he’d been smoking it. Can you imagine Lincoln with a few toots in him?” Fitz laughed. “No. Mr. Fancypants has always struck me as the one scotch before dinner because it looks good, rather than enjoying it type. He isn’t much for losing control.” “Well, that’s to be expected, if you think about his background. Damn, it would be nice to have him back to work this Wolff case. I’ll bet there’s a ton of financial discovery, right up his little computer-literate heart’s alley. Marcus is back tomorrow, right?” Marcus Wade, her youngest detective, had been out for four days doing his in-service training rotation. Without the two detectives, the squad had been too quiet. “He’ll be in bright and early tomorrow. We can get him up to speed with the Wolff case, let him go to town. Media’s having a field day with the 911 tape.

Now, I often make a big batch of soup on Saturday or Sunday, and we eat that for days. Fortunately, neither of us minds having taco soup for three or four nights in a row!

Tonight she'd share her idea with Chris over a rare family meal. In preparation, she was making scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, one of the few meals she could cook without setting off the fire alarms. She hated having to come up with meals day after day after day. Chris was the one who could cook- her talent was eating. But it didn't make sense for him to work full time and then cook dinner every night, so she did her best, mastering a few simple dishes like tacos and barbecue pork sandwiches. If it involved more than one pot, forget it. Too many ingredients? No way. Scrambled eggs with cheese and herbs was her specialty. The family called them "Katie eggs" because when Kate was four, it was all she could eat for six months, ergo MJ's mastery of them.

Clear your kitchen of all obvious wheat and grain sources •Wheat-based products: bread, rolls, breakfast cereals, pasta, orzo, bagels, muffins, pancakes and pancake mixes, waffles, doughnuts, pretzels, cookies, crackers •Bulgur and triticale (both related to wheat) •Barley products: barley, barley breads, soups with barley, vinegars with barley malt •Rye products: rye bread, pumpernickel bread, crackers •All corn products: corn, cornstarch, cornmeal products (chips, tacos, tortillas), grits, polenta, sauces or gravies thickened with cornstarch, corn syrup, high-fructose corn syrup, breakfast cereals •Rice products: white rice, brown rice, wild rice, rice cakes, breakfast cereals •Oat products: oatmeal, oat bran, oat cereals •Amaranth •Teff •Millet •Sorghum

You had the taco salad, too, huh?” The

On days off, Bell patronized the Mexican restaurants on San Bernardino’s West Side, the city’s historic barrio. He noticed how more and more non-Mexicans were eating Mexican food—this in a city that had just desegregated its swimming pools and was about to desegregate housing and schools. Feeling that tacos were the way to beat the McDonald’s, Bell passed the idea by his wife, who dismissed it as foolish: whites wouldn’t buy the food because it was too spicy, she argued. When Glen suggested toning down the heat, his soon-to-be-ex retorted, “Then even Mexicans won’t buy it.

They hadn't had a real meal together in years. Those late, boozy nights with sloppy cheeseburgers and too many appetizers were long gone. No longer would they get pasta and wine by the bottle, telling their Sicilian server not to judge them for how much cheese they wanted ground over their gnocchi and carbonara. They would drink beer and share those plasticky nachos and watch awful bands cover extremely good bands. Their indulgence might kill them one day, but wasn't it worth it? That had been her opinion. She'd never really considered what would happen once the indulgence was gone. Margo, luckily, was always up for whatever challenge made her days more interesting. She was constantly trying to make dupes for whatever she- or he- was really in the mood for. Egg white huevos rancheros, turkey meat loaf, chicken chili, and on one disastrous Thanksgiving, Tofurkey. Nutritional yeast weakly filled the big shoes of good Parmesan. Lettuce did the minimum to live up to the utility purpose of a tortilla while textured vegetable protein tried pitifully to be taco meat.

We inched past the doughnut stand and were blasted full in the face by taco steam. Not that I was complaining. If all exfoliation steam smelled like tacos, sign me up for a spa day right now.

Did you say ‘Nora Taco’?” Dad interrupted. Agent Taco gave him a severe look. “Yes.” “That’s a pretty unusual name,” Dad observed. “So I’ve been told.” Agent Taco spoke as though she had gone through this every day of her life and was sick of it. My father didn’t pick up on this. “Is it weird, being named after a food?” “My family is not named after a food,” Agent Taco said curtly. “The food is named after my family. My ancestors invented it.” “Your family invented the taco?” Mom asked, astonished. “I had always thought…” “Tacos always existed?” Agent Taco said. “They didn’t. The same way that sandwiches didn’t exist until the Earl of Sandwich invented them. There were no tacos until Don Diego Taco came along.” “Wow,” Dad said, impressed. “You learn something new every day.” “As I was trying to say,” Agent Taco went on,

Traditions are conditioned reflexes. Throughout Part 2 of this book, you will find suggestions for establishing family traditions that will trigger happy anticipation and leave lasting, cherished memories. Traditions around major holidays and minor holidays. Bedtime, bath-time, and mealtime traditions; sports and pastime traditions; birthday and anniversary traditions; charitable and educational traditions. If your family’s traditions coincide with others’ observances, such as celebrating Thanksgiving, you will still make those traditions unique to your family because of the personal nuances you add. Volunteering at the food bank on Thanksgiving morning, measuring and marking their heights on the door frame in the basement, Grandpa’s artistic carving of the turkey, and their uncle’s famous gravy are the traditions our kids salivated about when they were younger, and still do on their long plane rides home at the end of November each year. (By the way, our dog Lizzy has confirmed Pavlov’s observations; when the carving knife turns on, cue the saliva, tail wagging, and doggy squealing.) But don’t limit your family’s traditions to the big and obvious events like Thanksgiving. Weekly taco nights, family book club and movie nights, pajama walks, ice cream sundaes on Sundays, backyard football during halftime of TV games, pancakes in Mom and Dad’s bed on weekends, leaf fights in the fall, walks to the sledding hill on the season’s first snow, Chinese food on anniversaries, Indian food for big occasions, and balloons hanging from the ceiling around the breakfast table on birthday mornings. Be creative, even silly. Make a secret family noise together when you’re the only ones in the elevator. When you share a secret that “can’t leave this room,” everybody knows to reach up in the air and grab the imaginary tidbit before it can get away. Have a family comedy night or a talent show on each birthday. Make holiday cards from scratch. Celebrate major family events by writing personalized lyrics to an old song and karaoking your new composition together. There are two keys to establishing family traditions: repetition and anticipation. When you find something that brings out excitement and smiles in your kids, keep doing it. Not so often that it becomes mundane, but on a regular and predictable enough basis that it becomes an ingrained part of the family repertoire. And begin talking about the traditional event days ahead of time so by the time it finally happens, your kids are beside themselves with excitement. Anticipation can be as much fun as the tradition itself.

Julieta didn't understand the appeal of crunching numbers all day and schmoozing at golf courses. She preferred to be creative. She loved experimenting with classic cooking techniques and swapping in nontraditional ingredients. She had just perfected a recipe of lavender flan that she planned to put on the menu next week.

Here is your Carnitas Eggs Benedict with Chipotle Hollandaise. I still feel bad about dropping your food the other day." He shook his head. "Don't apologize. You were shocked. I'm just grateful I can eat here every day now." "Until you close it down." Ouch. "Well, maybe we can add these to the menu." Julieta rolled her eyes. Man, she was tough.

The only songs men sang these days were on TikTok. And even those were lip-synched. Romance was dead.

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Christian came in around three in the morning. She heard him moving around the kitchen, probably looking for his plate. She found her way in the kitchen staring at him behind a wall; he was so attractive to her. “Farren, where is my plate?” he asked, never turning around to face her. “I didn’t make you one," she whispered. He turned around. “It’s taco night, and you didn’t make me a plate?” He actually looked mad. “No I didn’t. It’s taco night for a reason; a family that eats together stays together,” she told him and went back to their bedroom. It felt good to tell his ass off. She went to bed with a smile on her face, and for the first time in a few days, without crying.

He brought greasy sacks from Brothers Tacos, splitting the aluminum evenly across the carpet—but Poke wasn’t a fool. He’d seen the other boys eyeing him. He knew he’d have to contribute. He just wanted to know the stakes. Luckily for Poke, everyone had an answer for him. Before Rod, Nacho’d been another orphan junkie working the Latin bars on Washington. He’d lived in Humble with his aunt and some pocho from El Paso, until they caught him with the poppers. Then he needed a new situation. He hustled day to day before Rod cut him off at South Beach, snagging Nacho from the lap of some whiteboy by the door.

It took me four days to figure out how to get back to DC!” “Four days?” I asked, astonished. “But you were less than fifteen miles from the city.” “I was out in the wilderness! And the terrain was very treacherous!” “You were in the suburbs.” “It was a park.” “A small park. And it was completely surrounded by civilization. It only took Chip and Jawa thirty minutes to walk to a Taco Bell.

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