Taco Love Quotes

Marry me, Kiara,” he blurts out in front of everyone. “Why?” she asks, challenging him. “Because I love you,” he says, walking up to her and bending down on one knee while he takes her hand in his, “and I want to go to sleep with you every night and wake up seein’ your face every mornin’, I want you to be the mother of my children, I want to fix cars with you and eat your crappy tofu tacos that you think are Mexican. I want to climb mountains with you and be challenged by you, I want to argue with you just so we can have crazy hot makeup sex. Marry me, because without you I’d be six feet under … and because I love your family like they’re my own … and because you’re my best friend and I want to grow old with you.” He starts tearing up, and it’s shocking because I’ve never seen him cry. “Marry me, Kiara Westford, because when I got shot the only thing I was thinkin’ about was comin’ back here and makin’ you my wife. Say yes, chica.

Empty packets of hot sauce remind me of the love I used to have for her. Now all I’m left with is this yummy taco.

Five tacos—Aaron had gotten me five and not four, like I had told him.

She came awake, stomach rumbling, and opened her eyes to see a plate being held right under her nose. When she reached for it, Shane snatched it back. 'Nuh-uh. Mine.' 'Share!' she demanded. 'Man, you are one grabby girlfriend.' She grinned. It always made her feel so fiercly warm inside to hear him say that- the girlfriend part, not the grabby part. 'If you love me, you'll give me a taco.' 'Seriously? That's all you got? What about you'll do sexy, illegal things to me for a taco?' 'Not for a taco,' she said. 'I'm not cheap.' 'They're brisket tacos.' 'Now you're talking.

I once made love to a taco shell stuffed with rancid meat and watery tomato bits. It was the best sex I’ve ever served to an unsuspecting customer.

Love, Peace, and taco grease!

So what does Just Tacos have to do with kissing?” “Besides the fact I absolutely love both?” he asks.

Real love feels less like a throbbing, pulsing animal begging for its freedom and beating against the inside of my chest and more like, 'Hey, that place you like had fish tacos today and i got you some while i was out', as it sets a bag spotted with grease on the dining room table. It's not a game you don't understand the rules of, or a test you never got the materials to study for. It never leaves you wondering who could possibly be texting at 3 am. Or what you could possibly do to make it come home and stay there. It's fucking boring, dude. I don't walk around mired in uneasiness, waiting for the other shoe to drop. No parsing through spun tales about why it took her so long to come back from the store. No checking her emails or calling her job to make sure she's actually there. No sitting in my car outside her house at dawn, to make sure she's alone when she leaves. This feels safe, and steadfast, and predictable. And secure. It's boring as shit. And it's easily the best thing I've ever felt.

«Cuarto, educado». Yo soy muy educado, casi nunca digo tacos, solamente cuando me irrito si algo me saca de mis casillas, y respecto a lo del «cerdo del vecino», yo no tengo ningún cerdo.

To the rocket scientist, you are a problem. You are the most irritating piece of machinery he or she will ever have to deal with. You and your fluctuating metabolism, your puny memory, your frame that comes in a million different configurations. You are unpredictable. You're inconstant. You take weeks to fix. The engineer must worry about the water and oxygen and food you'll need in space, about how much extra fuel it will take to launch your shrimp cocktail and irradiated beef tacos. A solar cell or a thruster nozzle is stable and undemanding. It does not excrete or panic or fall in love with the mission commander. It has no ego. Its structural elements don't start to break down without gravity, and it works just fine without sleep. To me, you are the best thing to happen to rocket science. The human being is the machine that makes the whole endeavor so endlessly intriguing.

Real love feels less like a throbbing, pulsing animal begging for its freedom and beating against the inside of my chest and more like, “Hey, that place you like had fish tacos today and I got you some while I was out,” as it sets a bag spotted with grease on the dining room table.

Everything happens all the time forever, and this would be a terrifying concept if I wasn't so enlightened and in-tune with the natural forces of the universe, which include but aren't limited to; A. taco salad, B. taco salad, and C. my own glorious ass (glorioass).

It’s okay to fall apart sometimes. Tacos fall apart and we still love them.

Jealousy isn't always seeing someone having something better or seeing the one you love with someone else. Sometimes it's knowing he's seen the cashier at Taco Bell more times this week than he's told you about and you wish you could be standing there with your arms around him so they knew...

love a woman who has her priorities in order. Tacos first, then diamonds.

Ramón gasped at the sight of her. The tight red dress she wore hugged her curves, worshipped them as if her body was a church. I feel a religious experience coming on.

This is golden, Katie thought as they rumbled down the freeway eating fast-food tacos. I love being "us".

Tacos will grow on Christmas trees before I learn to carry a tune. Fortunately, it doesn’t matter. In karaoke, talent means nada; enthusiasm is everything. What I lack in talent, I make up for in passion. Hence my karaoke problem.

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.

I had a dream about you. You looked so beautiful that I felt compelled to say something. So I said, “The fish taco wasn’t nearly as stinky as I imagined it’d be.” You looked at me with your gorgeous eyes and said, “Life isn’t all roses to the noseless, and those with eyes need to listen closely.” I nodded my head in agreement, even though I didn’t have a clue what you meant. But that’s what love does, right? It makes men clueless.

She’d saved his life, then saved him a taco. If this wasn’t love, he knew jack shit about romance.

Tacos first, then diamonds

You had a good life and a good home. You loved me and I loved you. I'll let your ashes go in the park. When night comes and the wind blows in over the grass you'll come home.

I hate it when I’m trying to eat a salad, it falls on the floor, and I have to eat tacos instead. -Text from Audrey to Tobias

Guau. The girl in the garden was breathtakingly gorgeous. She had a petite frame, dark iridescent skin, and magnetic energy. Her haunting espresso-colored eyes hypnotized him. Ramón had to force himself to stop staring at her fabulous cleavage. But her curves didn't stop there. That ass was the kind that songs were written about. He could write one about her right now.

El Lindo tastes like the line from that famous murder mystery movie “Rambo,” when Nicolas Cage rips off his tuxedo and says, “I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t a man to call Taco Bell Mexican cuisine." I love a good romance.

The most beautiful things are the ones that have to end. Sunsets, video games, taco night, roller coasters, and you. That's why they're beautiful, Elena. We know we don't get to keep them forever, so we have to really love them while we can.

Want to know what else I heard you did at the bar?” “I don’t think I do.” “You used your red lipstick to scribble ‘Alethea is a skanky hoe’ on the bathroom mirror.” In her opinion, truer words had never been spoken – well, scribbled. Her demon agreed. “You almost yacked in the Bentley.” Oh, God. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “Stop.” “We had to pull over so you could vomit in a bush.” “Stop.” “Then you got back in the car and said, ‘Taco Bell, anyone?’” “Stop.”  Knox chuckled. “But I haven’t told you what you did when you got home yet.” She buried her face deeper into the pillow. “I don’t want to hear it.” He spoke into her ear. “You told me you love me, you’d always love me, and that you even love my demon… which would have been really sweet if you weren’t bent over the toilet with vomit in your hair.

But how do you feel about tacos?” I cross my arms. He studies me before huffing out another laugh. “I fucking love tacos.” I relax, glad one of the biggest relationship hurdles we’ve ever faced in our five minutes of dating has been jumped over. “That could have been a deal-breaker, dude.” I smile like I’m joking. But I’m really not. Kade’s really hot. But…Tacos.

The hot water cascaded down his body, and his thoughts again turned to the captivating and mysterious girl who'd fled his house. He hadn't even seen her face without makeup, though he wished he had. Her lips were full, her breasts were beautiful, and her ass was round. And the way she kissed with her delicious mouth had driven Ramón wild. His hand reached down to stroke his throbbing cock. Oh, how he wished it was her delicate fingers wrapped around his length, or better yet, her mouth. Yeah, that was it. He wanted to fuck her mouth. The soft tongue of hers licking his tip, teasing him until he couldn't resist her any longer. Juliet on her knees in front of him, deep throating him. Her eyes locked on his as she took him deeper and deeper.

BROOKE PARKER STEPPED up to the bar at The Shore restaurant, ready to place her lunch order. The bartender, however, beat her to the punch. “Hey, it’s my favorite customer—Chicken Tacos, Extra Pico.” He flashed her a grin. “That’s my nickname for you.” Yes, she got that. “I suppose I’ve been called worse,” Brooke said as the bartender moved to the cash register to ring her up.

My job title was youth advocate. My approach was unconditional positive regard. My mission was to help the girl youth succeed in spite of the unspeakably harrowing crap stew they’d been simmering in all of their lives. Succeeding in this context meant getting neither pregnant nor locked up before graduating high school. It meant eventually holding down a job at Taco Bell or Walmart. It was only that! It was such a small thing and yet it was enormous. It was like trying to push an eighteen-wheeler with your pinkie finger. I was not technically qualified to be a youth advocate. I’d never worked with youth or counseled anyone. I had degrees in neither education nor psychology. I’d been a waitress who wrote stories every chance I got for most of the preceding years. But for some reason, I wanted this job and so I talked my way into it. I wasn’t meant to let the girls know I was

—¿Te gustan los tacos? —le pregunto. —¿Qué? ¿Es que estás siempre pensando en comida? —Sí, evidentemente. Y, ¿sabes qué? Que los tacos se rompen, todo el tiempo. Pero a todo el mundo le gustan. —Sonrío, satisfecha con mi ejemplo—. ¿O es que tú no recoges los trocitos pequeños que se quedan en el fondo del plato con las puntas de tus dedos? —¿Me estás diciendo que soy como un taco? —Te estoy diciendo que, si te rompes, recogeré tus trocitos. —¿Y te los comerás? —Y me los comeré.

Hey, we should do a Sound of Music night!” “Sure,” I say. “This movie sounds terrible,” Kitty says. “What kind of name is Georg?” We ignore her. Daddy says, “Tonight? I’ll make tacos al pastor!” “I can’t,” I say. “I’m going over to Belleview.” “What about you, Kitty?” Daddy asks. “Sophie’s mom is teaching us how to make latke cakes,” Kitty says. “Did you know that you put applesauce on top of them and it’s delicious?” Daddy’s shoulders slump. “Yes, I did know that. I’m going to have to start booking you guys a month in advance.

Needless to say, cooking for a man with such a delicate palate can be challenging and every once in a while I like to make something that isn't served with a glass of milk and a side of applesauce. This can be difficult with a husband with such discriminating taste buds. Difficult, but not impossible, if you're willing to lie. Which I am.   During the winter months I love to make soups and one of my favorites is taco soup. It has all of the basic food groups in one bowl; meat, veggies, beans, and Fritos. It's perfection. I've been warming bodies and cleaning colons with this recipe for years. However, when I met my husband he advised he didn't like beans, so he couldn't eat taco soup. This was not the response I hoped for.   I decided to make it for him anyway. The first time I did I debated whether to add beans. I knew he wouldn't eat it if I did, but I also knew the beans were what gave it the strong flavor. I decided the only way to maintain the integrity of the soup was to sacrifice mine. I lied to him about the ingredients. Because my husband is not only picky but also observant, I knew I couldn't just dump the beans into the soup undetected. Rather, I had to go incognito. For that, I implored the use of the food processor, who was happy to accommodate after sitting in the cabinet untouched for years.   I dumped the cans of beans in the processor and pureed them into a paste. I then dumped the paste into the taco soup mixture, returning the food processor to the cabinet where it would sit untouched for another six months.   When it came time to eat, I dished out a heaping bowl of soup and handed it to my husband. We sat down to eat and I anxiously awaited his verdict, knowing he was eating a heaping bowl of deceit.   “This is delicious. What's in it?” he asked, in between mouthfuls of soup.   “It's just a mixture of taco ingredients,” I innocently replied, focusing on the layer of Fritos covering my bowl.   “Whatever it is, it's amazing,” he responded, quickly devouring each bite.   At that moment I wanted nothing more than to slap the spoon out of his hand and yell “That's beans, bitch!” However, I refrained because I'm classy (and because I didn't want to clean up the mess).

The conversation swings from the brothers Bush to the war in Iraq to the emerging rights of Muslim women to postfeminism to current cinema—Mexican, American, European (Giorgio goes spasmodically mad over Bu-ñuel), and back to Mexican again—to the relative superiority of shrimp over any other kind of taco to the excellence of Ana’s paella, to Ana’s childhood, then to Jimena’s, to the changing role of motherhood in a postindustrial world, to sculpture, then painting, then poetry, then baseball, then Jimena’s inexplicable (to Pablo) fondness for American football (she’s a Dallas Cowboys fan) over real (to Pablo) fútbol, to his admittedly adolescent passion for the game, to the trials of adolescence itself and revelations over the loss of virginity and why we refer to it as a loss and now Óscar and Tomás, arms over each other’s shoulders, are chanting poetry and then Giorgio picks up a guitar and starts to play and this is the Juárez that Pablo loves, this is the city of his soul—the poetry, the passionate discussions (Ana makes her counterpoints jabbing her cigarette like a foil; Jimena’s words flow like a gentle wave across beach sand, washing away the words before; Giorgio trills a jazz saxophone while Pablo plays bass—they are a jazz combo of argument), the ideas flowing with the wine and beer, the lilting music in a black night, this is the gentle heartbeat of the Mexico that he adores, the laughter, the subtle perfume of desert flowers that grow in alleys alongside garbage, and now everyone is singing— México, está muy contento, Dando gracias a millares… —and this is his life—this is his city, these are his friends, his beloved friends, these people, and if this is all that there is or will be, it is enough for him, his world, his life, his city, his people, his sad beautiful Juárez… —empezaré de Durango, Torreón y Ciudad de

I woke up to an ache in my chest, the smell of chocolate, and the sound of the ghost making a racket in the kitchen. Now, I'm not the sort to dwell on doom and sorrow. Life is too short for that. But I should at least try to describe the ache briefly: It is not the kind that comes from eating tacos too late at night. It's the kind that comes from being left behind. I think my heart is smart enough to know there's a place I should be filling with new memories, new jokes, and wondrous adventures with the one person I loved most of all. But that person is gone now. And so, my heart has a giant hole. I call it The Big Empty.

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.

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.

My hair floated out around me with the evening breeze, and Romeo caught a strand of it before he opened the door to the car. “You really do look beautiful,” he murmured, dipping his head low. “Thanks,” I said against his lips. His kiss ignited instant desire inside me. Even though I spent last night with him, and the night before, I missed him terribly. I felt like we hadn’t had enough alone time. I wanted more. I wanted so much more. He groaned and pulled back. “Let’s get this dinner over with,” he said grumpily. “I want to spend some time alone with you.” “You read my mind.” “Now that the season is over, we’ll have more time together.” “Want to just go to Taco Bell and hide at your place?” I asked when he slid into the driver’s seat. He laughed. The sound filled the interior of the car. “Why, Rimmel,”— he pressed a hand to his chest like he was scandalized—“ are you suggesting we stand up my mother?” I giggled. “I knew it,” he drawled. “Underneath that sweet exterior lies the heart of a baddie baddie.” I laughed out loud. “A baddie baddie?” “Like totally,” he said in a valley girl voice and pretended to flip the long hair he didn’t have. God, I loved him. “So what do you say?” I taunted as I smiled. “Want to play hookie?” He groaned. “I’d love to, baby, but we can’t.” I stuck out my tongue. “Watch what you do with that thing, baby girl.” “Yeah? Or what?” I challenged. “Or we might be late and I might mess up the perfect hair and makeup you got going on.” His eyes twinkled and he fake gasped as he put the car in gear. “Just what would mother say?

I’m going to have to start booking you guys a month in advance.” “Or you could invite Ms. Rothschild over,” Kitty suggests. “Her weekends are pretty lonely too.” He gives her a funny look. “I’m sure she has plenty she’d rather do than watch The Sound of Music with her neighbor.” Brightly I say, “Don’t forget the tacos al pastor! Those are a draw, too. And you, of course. You’re a draw.” “You’re definitely a draw,” Kitty pipes up. “Guys,” Daddy begins. “Wait,” I say. “Let me just say one thing. You should be going on some dates, Daddy.” “I go on dates!” “You’ve gone on, like, two dates ever,” I say, and he falls silent. “Why not ask Ms. Rothschild out? She’s cute, she has a good job, Kitty loves her. And she lives really close by.” “See, that’s exactly why I shouldn’t ask her out,” Daddy says. “You should never date a neighbor or a coworker, because then you’ll have to keep seeing them if things don’t work out.” Kitty asks, “You mean like that quote ‘Don’t shit where you eat’?” When Daddy frowns, Kitty quickly corrects herself. “I mean ‘Don’t poop where you eat.’ That’s what you mean, right, Daddy?” “Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean, but Kitty, I don’t like you using cuss words.” Contritely she says, “I’m sorry. But I still think you should give Ms. Rothschild a chance. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.” “Well, I’d hate to see you get your hopes up,” Daddy says. “That’s life,” Kitty says. “Things don’t always work out. Look at Lara Jean and Peter.” I give her a dirty look. “Gee, thanks a lot.” “I’m just trying to make a point,” she says. Kitty goes over to Daddy and puts her arms around his waist. This kid is really pulling out all the stops. “Just think about it, Daddy. Tacos. Nuns. Nazis. And Ms. Rothschild.

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!

The second Ramón closed the door, he pushed Julieta against the wall. His hands gripped her waist, and he pulled off her bikini bottoms. He loved eating her pussy. "Ramón!" She was so wet. She moaned as he devoured her. Once she was right where he wanted her, Ramón stopped. He grabbed a condom, slipped it over his cock, and turned her around so her hands were against the wall. He removed her bikini top, then squeezed her incredible ass. She was naked except for her mesh coverup, which was the sexiest thing he had ever seen. He rubbed her pussy again, and she was so wet, so ready for him. Ramón teased her with the tip of his cock. "Please, just fuck me." He slowly slid in and reached around and rubbed her clit. She moaned as she pressed her ass back against him. Ramón was in heaven inside her. He fucked her harder and harder, and she was so loud. "Ay, Dios mío. Don't stop." He squeezed her nipple while working her clit, until her pussy clamped around him. She came, and Ramón did, too.

He picked her up, took her into the bedroom, and placed her on the bed. Wow---it was like a floating cloud. Ramón reclaimed her lips before his mouth left hers to blaze a path down her body. Heat pooled in her belly as he made his descent. He leaned in to lavish attention on her right nipple, licking around in circle before sucking on it, and then her left. Julieta moaned as he worked his magic. Her buds hardened against the softness of his tongue. She came alive under his mouth, writhing beneath. This entire night seemed like such a fantasy, and it was only going to get better. His hand caressed her body, and he cupped her ass. She ran her hands through his thick black hair as he guided his mouth down to her panties. Julieta's core throbbed for him. The sight of his wide shoulders and strong back was almost enough to put her over the edge. She couldn't wait to ravage him---kiss down his chest, pleasure him, but Ramón was in control, and he was focused only on her. He kissed her belly and settled in between her legs. His lips pressed against her black lace panties, the heat of his mouth igniting her fire. He planted more kisses on her, focusing now on her thighs. Julieta was out of her mind with lust. "Stop teasing me." She wanted Ramón's mouth on her, and she wanted it now. She began to remove her panties, but Ramón quickly got the hint and took them off. He looked up at her, and a devilish grin graced his face. "Tell me what you want, babe." "Cómeme." "My pleasure." He began to lick her, starting with her thighs, before lapping in between her lips. Slow and sweet, deep and dirty, Julieta wanted all of him. Ramón's tongue pressed against her clit, and she gasped, a flash of pleasure overtaking her. "Ah, Ramón." "You taste so sweet." He hummed against her, and she ran her fingers through his hair, holding him as his tongue worked its magic. She cried out, desperate for release. Julieta wanted this moment---not just the intimacy, but the night---to last forever. Ramón was every fantasy she had ever had wrapped up into one---strong, sexy, sweet, and oh so skilled. His deep voice, his capable hands, his delicious mouth. Perfection. She completely surrendered to him. "Ramón." She couldn't hold back any longer, as he edged her over the top. One final lick and a wave of ecstasy crashed through her followed by shivers of joy radiating through her entire body.

Her hands glided down his body and landed on his cock. Yes. Ramón cupped her face and kissed her again. Julieta pulled away and dropped to her knees in front of him. "Yeah, baby." Her hands squeezed his ass, and she pulled down his pants and his boxer briefs. Ramón had been fantasizing about this since he'd met her. He was already so hard. He couldn't wait to feel her mouth around him. She kissed around the base of his cock and licked the tip. "Stop teasing me." She licked down his length and spat on her hand before she grasped him. Ah, that felt so good. A few more kisses on the head, and he was dying with anticipation. She finally took him in her mouth. He exhaled, enjoying the moment of pleasure. Having her eyes locked on his was almost enough to send him over the edge. Her mouth was so hot. The pressure built in his balls. "That's it, baby. Don't stop. Just like that." Her head bobbed up and down, taking him deep. She created a seal with her lips. Ramón took control. He held her right where he wanted as he fucked her mouth. He thrust deeper. He was right on the edge. "I'm going to come, baby." He tried to pull away, but she wouldn't let him. She sucked him so hard, so deep. He finally let go, and she swallowed.

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.

I want more, I said, putting a hand to my stomach, which rides higher than most know. Closer to the heart. I want the jiang bing that vendor will make when she runs out of nut butter. I don't think she's arrogant. I think she's right. I want to sample jian bing from every cart in Beijing, and I want to taste what those kids are eating at home, what they don't teach in cookbooks at Le Cordon Bleu. There's so much out there--- Helplessly, I said, I haven't even told you how much I love foods wrapped in other foods. Then tell me. I tried. I tried. Banh xeo in Hanoi, I said, and duck folded in the translucent bing of northern China. I spoke of tacos in Mexico City: suadero, al pastor, gringas. South Indian dosas as long as my arm, thinner than a rib of a feather. Oh, Aida, I said when I fumbled the names of the chutneys. How can I know all I've ever want? Something will get left out. I was wrong about cilantro. Tlayudas, she said stubbornly, as if she hadn't heard. Blini. Crêpes. They're basically French jian bing, I said with a strangled laugh. Pita sandwiches. Pickle roll-ups. Calzone. Bossam! I yelled, and the dogs barked and the children cheered and the streets of old Milan rang with the imported memory of pork kissed by brine, earthy with Korean bean paste, safe in its bed of red leaf lettuce.

Ramón kissed slowly down her body. His touch was gentle, but the teasing was unbearable. Julieta was going to explode. He spread her legs wide and licked her as pleasure throbbed through her. She thrashed around on the bed as he drove her out of her mind with delight. She was almost there when he stopped, leaving her breathless. She caught the hungry look in his eye. She pulled him up and knelt in front of him. She couldn't wait to suck his cock. She gripped the base and took him deep. Ramón groaned but nudged her head off him. "I want you." Julieta's body was on fire. Ramón was so gorgeous naked. His dark skin accentuated every muscle. He was an Aztec god. And she couldn't wait for him to conquer her. He grabbed a condom and pulled it on. She lay back, and he kissed her neck as she welcomed him deep into her soul. "Oh, Ramón." His hard body pressed against hers as his rhythm quickened. She screamed in ecstasy. Ramón kissed her neck and then slid out slowly. Julieta ached without him. He sat up on the bed. "Ride me." Julieta slowly lowered herself onto him, inch by inch. She gasped. He filled her perfectly. "Let me look at you," he said. She smiled and then he smiled. And they both laughed. They kissed, and she started rubbing her clit against him, the tension sending pulses of pleasure through her brain. He sucked on her nipples, and Julieta was almost over the edge of ecstasy. His hands clutched her bottom as he guided her rhythm. She threw her head back in abandon. Julieta never wanted this moment to end. She was so close. "Ay, Ramón!" He held her close, and she came harder than she ever had as he grunted in pleasure.

When a thin person announces, “Here’s a great taco place,” I kind of shut down a little. How do they know it’s so great? From smelling the tacos? If they only ate one taco, the taco could not have been that great.

6 large eggs 1/4 cup chopped fresh basil leaves 1/2 cup crumbled goat cheese 1/2 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper 1 tablespoon olive oil 2 cups sliced baby bella mushrooms 1 small yellow onion, peeled and diced 1 cup water 1 In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, basil, goat cheese, salt, and pepper. Set aside. 2 Press the Sauté button on the Instant Pot®. Heat oil 30 seconds and stir-fry mushrooms and onions 5 minutes until onions are translucent. 3 Transfer cooked mushroom mixture to a 7-cup glass bowl greased with either oil or cooking spray and set aside to cool 5 minutes. Pour

Roses are red, violets are blue. I love queso and tacos, too.

No, that's not an innuendo, though I do like my women like I like my tacos: extra spicy.

Before I know it, the only thing I'm certain of is that this woman drives me crazy... in the best way possible.

Love was a marketing strategy, but every ad campaign lost its zest in the end. Every romantic bond eventually turned into the Yo Quiero Taco Bell dog.

We usually camp out on digs. Smoked briskets and pulled chicken is a big step up from hot dogs and walking tacos.

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.

1. A Rich Life means you can spend extravagantly on the things you love as long as you cut costs mercilessly on the things you don’t. 2. Focus on the Big Wins—the five to ten things that get you disproportionate results, including automating your savings and investing, finding a job you love, and negotiating your salary. Get the Big Wins right and you can order as many lattes as you want. 3. Investing should be very boring—and very profitable—over the long term. I get more excited eating tacos than checking my investment returns. 4. There’s a limit to how much you can cut, but no limit to how much you can earn. I have readers who earn $50,000/year and ones who earn $750,000/year. They both buy the same loaves of bread. Controlling spending is important, but your earnings become super-linear. 5. Your friends and family will have lots of “tips” once you begin your financial journey. Listen politely, then stick to the program. 6. Build a collection of “spending frameworks” to use when deciding on buying something. Most people default to restrictive rules (“I need to cut back on eating out . . .”), but you can flip it and decide what you’ll always spend on, like my book-buying rule: If you’re thinking about buying a book, just buy it. Don’t waste even five seconds debating it. Applying even one new idea from a book is worth it. (Like this one.) 7. Beware of the endless search for “advanced” tips. So many people seek out high-level answers to avoid the real, hard work of improving step by step. It’s easier to dream about winning the Boston Marathon than to go out for a ten-minute jog every morning. Sometimes the most advanced thing you can do is the basics, consistently. 8. You’re in control. This isn’t a Disney movie and nobody’s coming to rescue you. Fortunately, you can take control of your finances and build your Rich Life. 9. Part of creating your Rich Life is the willingness to be unapologetically different. Once money isn’t a primary constraint, you’ll have the freedom to design your own Rich Life, which will almost certainly be different from the average person’s. Embrace it. This is the fun part! 10. Live life outside the spreadsheet. Once you automate your money using the system in this book, you’ll see that the most important part of a Rich Life is outside the spreadsheet—it involves relationships, new experiences, and giving back. You earned it.

You do know scones are not donuts, right?" Nina wasn't one to pass up any baked goods, but a donut was a donut. No scone would do. "This is not your white, British-royals high tea, my friend. This is Highland Park high tea. It opened a month ago, and I think we're about to have our whole world rocked." The Jam's exterior was black-and-white---- if you blinked you'd miss it. But when they went inside Nina immediately spotted a colorful mural of dinosaurs seated on velvet cushions, eating donuts and drinking out of porcelain cups. A pristine glass display case on the opposite wall featured rows and rows of endless donuts--- a happy welcoming committee of frosting and dough. "We'll be having tea for two," Jasmine said at the counter. "And for my donut, could I get the Swirly Rosewater, please?" As soon as she saw the names and flavors of the donuts, she instantly knew two things: one, she was going to love these, and two, Leo would absolutely hate them. Nina suddenly felt sympathy for Leo any time a contestant created a unique flavor pairing on the show. She raced to find the donut her friend had ordered in the case, and landed on a frosted pink cake donut that had a lemon rosewater glaze topped with roasted pistachios. "You live your life in pink, Jas." "No better color. So from what I read online, the deal is that instead of scones, they do vegan donuts---" Nina's eyes narrowed, and Jasmine glared right back. "Don't judge. What are you going to get?" "I need chocolate," Nina said. She scanned the rows in search of the perfect solution. "May I recommend our Chocolate from the Crypt donut?" the saleswoman suggested from behind the display. Her sharp bangs and blunt ponytail bobbed as she explained, "It's our fall-themed donut--- chocolate cake with a chocolate glaze, and it's got a kick from the cayenne pepper and cinnamon we add in." "Oh, my donut," Nina said. In the case was an absolutely gorgeous chocolate confection--- the cayenne and cinnamon flakes on the outside created a black-and-orange effect. "I am sold." "You got it." The saleswoman nodded and rang them up. A narrow hallway covered in murals of cartoon animals drinking tea led them to the official tearoom. Soaring ceilings revealed exposed beams and brick walls, signaling that the building was likely older and newly restored. Modern, barrel-back walnut chairs were clustered around ultrasleek Scandinavian round tables. Nina felt like she'd followed Jasmine down a rabbit hole and emerged into the modern interpretation of the Mad Hatter's tea party. "This is like..." Nina began. "It's a fun aesthetic." "I know, right?" Jasmine replied as they sat down. "It makes me feel like I'm not cool enough to be here, but glad I got invited." Nina picked up the prix fixe high tea menu on the table. The Jam's version of finger sandwiches were crispy "chicken" sliders, potato-hash tacos and mini banh mi, and in lieu of scones, they offered cornbread with raspberry jam and their signature donuts. "And it's all vegan...?" "Yes, my friendly carnivore, and hopefully delicious.

It took about fifteen weeks—a little more than three months—for Dr. Ham to change my inner narrative from a hateful whip-bearing tyrant to a chill(er) surfer dude. Like love and bankruptcy, it happened slowly, then all at once. Right now, I’m making breakfast. I woke up late, I accidentally missed a call this morning, it’s eleven A.M., and I have work to do. But I’m not rushing. I’m sautéing potatoes and onions and peppers together and frying eggs and chopping cilantro for some breakfast tacos. I assemble them carefully and then crumble cotija on top. They are delicious. I decide I’ll get to washing up when I get to it. I’ll get to everything when I get to it. The world will keep turning. The tacos are delicious, and I take my time eating them. And then I’m marvelling: Oh, wow. Maybe this life I’ve got is going to be spectacular, after all.

What if I need a "cool" job again. What a nightmare. What if to get women you have to be the only thing you hate.

But a few days later, when he wanted Hal to meet him at Taco Hut but she couldn’t because she and Alex had fancy dinner reservations, he lost his damn mind. He heard Olivia’s voice in his head, dialed the fancy seafood bistro, and said, “I need to cancel a dinner reservation.

Alexander may or may not have peeked out of the kitchen office to make sure Eden actually ate the rest of her Asian fusion abomination. Her delicious Asian fusion abomination. As much as it bothers him to admit, Alexander has never tasted anything so amazing before. The sauce was tangy, notes of lime coming to the forefront without being overpowering. The mini pita shells she'd used had been warmed on the skillet, offering a lovely crunchy texture to offset the softness of the Pad Thai.

2 large chayotes 1 brown-skinned yellow onion 2 tbsp. butter 1 cup stewed tomatoes, drained ¼ tsp. Mexican oregano Pinch of ground cloves Pinch of garlic powder Salt Freshly ground black pepper ½ lb. ground beef ½ tsp. taco seasoning mix Grated Parmesan cheese Cut the chayotes in half lengthwise. Remove the thin, flat seeds and boil the halves until tender, about ½ hour. Then scoop out the pulp, leaving the shells intact for stuffing. Chop the onion and cook in 1 tablespoon butter. Add the tomatoes and sprinkle with oregano, cloves, garlic powder, salt to taste, and pepper. Stir in the chopped chayote pulp. Brown the ground beef in 1 tablespoon butter and season with a little salt, pepper, and the taco seasoning mix. Combine the beef with the vegetables and heap the shells with this mixture. Sprinkle generously with grated cheese and bake at 350° for ½ hour. Serves 4.

Now Where Do You Find Customers? When novice entrepreneurs search for opportunities, they too often look beyond their Zone of Influence. They think the action is happening somewhere else, in some other location or industry. But seasoned entrepreneurs almost always find and create opportunities within the context of who they are, what they know, and especially who they know. In each of the examples above, the business validation process begins with potential customers in the entrepreneur’s orbit. Actual people with names. Tribes you belong to or are interested in, most of whom are already self-organized online. People you know how to reach, today. Though it’s rarely a part of their official origin stories, the biggest companies in the world—even the viral apps now worth billions—started through personal networks and real human connections. Mark Zuckerberg started Facebook in a weekend by emailing friends to use it. Version 1 did well, validating it. And Microsoft started with Bill Gates building software for a guy in Albuquerque. He had a CUSTOMER FIRST. In the beginning, founders should reach out to their friends, their former colleagues, their communities. You may think your business is unique, but trust me, it’s not. Every successful business can start this way. For example, Anahita loves her dogs and wanted healthier snacks for them. She started taking her homemade organic dog treats to her local dog park. She would sell out every time. A year later she now has a store called the Barkery, a dog bakery. Before you even think about picking a business idea, make sure you have easy access to the people you want to help. An easy way to do this is to think about where you have easy access to a targeted group of people whom you really want to help—like, say, new moms in Austin, cyclists, freelance writers, and taco obsessives (like me!). CHALLENGE Top three groups. Let’s write out your top three groups to target. Who do you have easy access to that you’d be EXCITED to help? This can be your neighbors, colleagues, religious friends, golf buddies, cooking friends, etc. The better you understand your target group, the better you can speak to them. The more specifically you can speak to their problems, the better and easier you can sell (or test products). Note how this process prioritizes communication with people, through starting (taking the first iteration of your solution straight to customers) and asking (engaging them in a conversation to determine how your solution can best fix their problem). Business creation should always be a conversation! Nearly every impulse we have is to be tight with our ideas by doing more research, going off alone to build the perfect product—anything and everything to avoid the discomfort of asking for money. This is the validation shortcut. You have to learn to fight through this impulse. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it.

Do you want me to feed you tacos?” I ask, my thumb trailing over her lips. “Did I tell you I’m painfully in love with you?

Likewise, in the eleventh-hour simulations atop the rocket at the Cape. Al showed only one sign of stress: the cycles—Smilin’ Al/Icy Commander—now came one on top of the other, in the same place, and alternated so suddenly that the people around him couldn’t keep track. They learned a little more about the mysterious Al Shepard here in the eleventh hour. Smilin’ Al was a man who wanted very much to be liked, even loved, by those around him. He wanted not just their respect but also their affection. Now, in April, on the eve of the great adventure, Smilin’ Al was more jovial and convivial than ever. He did his José Jiménez routine. His great grin spread wider and his great beer-call eyes beamed brighter than ever before. Smilin’ Al was crazy about a comedy routine that had been developed by a comedian named Bill Dana. It concerned the Cowardly Astronaut and was a great hit. Dana portrayed the Cowardly Astronaut as a stupid immigrant Mexican named José Jiménez, whose tongue wrapped around the English language like a taco. The idea was to interview Astronaut Jiménez like a news broadcaster. You’d say things like: “What has been the most difficult part of astronaut training, José?” “Obtaining de maw-ney, señor.” “The money? What for?” “For de bus back to Mejico, you betcha, reel queeck, señor.” “I see. Well, now, José, what do you plan to do once you’re in space?” “Gonna cry a lot, I theeeenk.” Smilin’ Al used to crack up over this routine. He liked to do the José Jiménez part; and if he could get someone to feed him the straight lines, he was in Seventh Heaven, Smilin’ Al version. Feed him the lines for his José Jiménez knock-off, and he’d treat you like the best beer-call good buddy you ever had. Of course, the Cowardly Astronaut routine was also a perfectly acceptable way for bringing up, on the oblique, as it were, the subject of the righteous stuff that the first flight into space would require. But that was probably unconscious on Al’s part. The main thing seemed to be the good fun, the camaraderie, the closeness and blustery affection of the squadron on the eve of battle. In these moments you saw Smilin’ Al supreme. And in the next moment— —some poor Air Force lieutenant, thinking this was the same Smilin’ Al he had been joking and carrying on with last night, would sing out, “Hey, Al! Somebody wants you on the phone!”—and all at once there would be Al, seething with an icy white fury, hissing out: “If you have something to tell me, Lieutenant … you will call me ‘Sir’!” And the poor devil wouldn’t know what hit him. Where the hell did that freaking arctic avalanche come from? And then he would realize that … all at once the Icy Commander was back in town.

If you got junk in the trunk, clap your hands. If your thighs rub together, clap your hands. If your bra’s always too tight, and it never fits you right… If you thicc and you know it clap your hands! Embrace yourself and your body the way it is now. Love who you are now. Go live your life now! Life is too short to wait. Life is too short not to eat that fifth taco or another helping of lasagna! Viva la carbs!

Because nachos got me. They were basically just tacos that didn’t have their life together.

He drops the cue stick on the table without care. “Taco Bell? I think I love you.” I look away quickly. I know that’s drunk talk, but why the hell does my heart skip a beat?

Dragons Love Tacos by Adam Rubin, illustrated by Daniel Salmieri.

She’s got some cute under those bruises,” his father murmured. Lifting his brows, he turned back to his father. “Yes, she does.” Garrett rubbed a hand over his lean jaw. “Could be there’s a little more to this job, huh?” Chad shook his head and leaned against the side of the truck. “Nah. She’s not interested in anything like that and I don’t know if I am either.” “Boy, it’d be a hard man that could deny that baby, though.” Grinning, Chad looked after the retreating pair. His father had always loved the little ones. “I know. We just put Taco away. She wasn’t wild about him at first, but this morning she hopped on him and rode like she’s been doing it for years.” Garrett grinned. “No kid I know has been able to deny Taco’s charm.” He

I saw the texts on Bethany's phone. I know you kidnapped her and I know she's in danger and I have no idea what you're planning on doing to her, but I swear to God, I will bring you down and destroy everything you love and I heard you talking in that locker and I don't care how you got in there but I am so sick of these freaking secrets so bring me to her right now or...or...I'll" I wracked my brain in the second it took to catch my breath and said the first thing that came to my mind, raging lunatic or not: "Or I'll puke on you. I swear to God, I'll throw up right on you." I paused for dramatic effect. "And I had tacos for lunch.

That wasn’t a fun book club meeting. Plus, at that meeting, Gert ate most of the taco dip, which really pissed me the fuck off. Part of the reason I’m willing to read their stupid, shitty book selection every month is the taco dip tray I know is going to be at the meetings. Gertrude and I had it out that night, let me tell you.

She had renovated the sea-to-table taqueria as carefully as she kneaded her handmade tortillas. She'd selected every item inside the restaurant, from the custom-painted murals on the walls to the Talavera tiles underneath her worn clogs. Every Saturday morning, she went to the open-air fish market near Seaport Village to pick the freshest, most sustainable seafood available. From sea urchins to rock crab, Julieta never shied away from varieties that weren't typically served in Mexican cuisine. And she wasn't afraid to experiment in the kitchen.

She bent down to smell a red rose when a deep male voice interrupted her, causing her heart to leap into her throat. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Ay, Dios mio. Her pulse ratcheted back down. Did he really just quote Romeo and Juliet? What a player. She looked up. Whoa---sexy dead mariachi alert! Was she dreaming? Her heart stuttered. A tall man with a strong jawline and twinkling dark eyes framed by impossibly long eyelashes stood before her. He was definitely handsome, even though his face was obscured by makeup. His charro suit seemed painted on his muscular body. He winked at her, which caused her to grin unabashedly. The shiny silver buttons on the sides of his tight black pants outlined his legs. She couldn't help but stare at his strong thighs... and that huge bulge in his pants. Breathe, Julieta, breathe.

Besides, didn't you read Romeo and Juliet? 'For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.'" Her lips widened into a coquettish smile. "It's hopeless. We can never work out. We're star-crossed lovers." He laughed and grinned. He liked her sass. He walked to her side and cautiously brushed a lock of hair off her delicate shoulders. "Let's do a rewrite.

Julieta inhaled the rose that the sexy man had given her. The floral scent made her woozy. Or maybe her giddy state was because she was high on his testosterone.

And Mexican regional specialties had originated in other cultures anyway---pan dulces were influenced by the French, and al pastor was based on lamb shawarma from the Lebanese. Cooking was about experimentation and innovation.

He took her softly at first, appreciating the subtle beauty and joy in that first kiss, a moment that could never be repeated with her again. Desire stirred inside him, and Ramón took no prisoners. He kissed her hungrily, and she responded with a fiery passion. She tasted like tequila and lime and lust. He wanted to get drunk on her lips. This kiss in the graveyard was hauntingly beautiful, just like her.

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.

What would Ramón look like shirtless? His body had been so firm against hers... Would his abs be chiseled into a six-pack? His chest warm and kissed golden-brown from our ancestors? She bet he had a sexy happy trail that led down to his---

Her dog, Taco, greeted her at the door and wagged his nubby tail. He was a black and brown Min Pin that Julieta had found near a dumpster six months ago. He'd had mange and a cloudy eye. Mamá had at first refused to let her keep him, but Julieta had stood up to her and nursed him back to health.

At least each course was better than the last. The ingredients were fresh, everything was made from scratch, and she had also planned the perfect wine pairing. He had never had mole with fish, as it was usually served with chicken. And for the first time in his life, he actually enjoyed eating cactus, a feat that even some of the best chefs in the world who had cooked for him hadn't managed to accomplish.

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.

Well, at least I will have time to say goodbye to my customers." Ramón gave Julieta a quizzical look. "I get they will be upset with the changes, but they will still be glad that you are the chef." "You still don't get it Ramón, do you? Yes, I will be here. But many of my customers will no longer support the place if it's a corporate chain. Of course, you will get new customers, tourists from out of state and residents of the beach towns who think coming to Barrio Logan is some type of Mexican Disneyland, where they can buy churros and take selfies in front of Chicano murals. But many locals will avoid us like ICE. And there will be protesters, including members of my own family and my friends. I can guarantee that." Ramón's throat tightened. "Julieta, you are from the community. And I'm no gringo---I'm Mexican, too." "You're a coconut, Ramón. You may be technically Mexican, but you are not part of this community.

Well, Ramón, I must tell you the irony of this entire situation." A smug smile graced Linda's face. "When your father first tried my tacos, do you know what he liked about them?" "He just told me he tried fish tacos during spring break, and that he met a beautiful señorita on the beach. He never said that they were your tacos." She shook her head. "Well, ask him again. And if he still lies, bring him to me---let him lie to my face. Yes, they were my tacos. I had a stand on the beach, and he ordered two tacos and a beer." He'd told Ramón this part of the story many times; he'd just never said that she had been the one to make the tacos. Then again, he had also left out the part about how he had stolen her recipe, if that was true. "He loved the fresh fish." Linda laughed. "No, that was not it at all. Yes, he did love the fish, and he had never had a fish taco. But he loved the fresh salsa. He loved the spicy batter. He loved the handmade tortillas. It's funny to me, because you have absolutely none of those elements left today in your tacos." Linda's words struck Ramón deep in his chest. She was right. Ramón had heard the story so many times. And Papá had always talked about how fresh and delicious all the ingredients were, including the handmade tortillas. Ramón looked at her. "I know. He told me the same thing." Linda placed her hand on Ramón's arm. "Ironic, isn't it? He used to tell me a story about a girlfriend he had in college who had made him an awful taco with canned tomatoes, American cheese, and iceberg lettuce. That her taco was so awful, that he could never marry her. And now, that is exactly the type of taco that you serve in your restaurant." Wow. She was absolutely right. The full reason that Papá had started Taco King was to bring authentic Mexican food to the college kids at San Diego. Somewhere along the line---due to business advisers who'd suggested cutting costs and replacing fresh tomatoes with canned, crumbled queso fresco with American cheese, and handmade tortillas with mass-produced hard shells---Papá had abandoned his vision.

Ramón examined the plate carefully and even lifted it to smell the tacos. There was no fishy scent at all---just a heavenly aroma of ocean mixed with heat. A crispy, yet not greasy, corn tortilla enveloped the fried and battered fish, garnished with lime, avocado, crema, cabbage, and pico de gallo, which was as fresh as his beloved abuela's salsa. Ramón squeezed lime on the taco, raised it to his mouth, and took the first bite. The crunch of the cabbage contrasted with the soft avocado. But the real star was the fish. Crispy, spicy, and delicious. The buttery flesh melted in his mouth. Ramón devoured both tacos in a matter of minutes.

When I was in junior high school I complained to my mother: Mami, ya no quiero llevar tacos de tortilla de marina con arroz, frijoles y carne para lonche porque we rein Las gringas.(Mami, I don't want to take tacos of flour tortillas with rice, beans and meat for lunch because the white girls make fun of me Tacos were nutritious and made with love, care, and hope had to be replaced with sandwiches of baloney and white bread.

Find the person that cherish you as much as you love tacos.

A taco that won’t force you to break your diet just can’t be that great.

So where do you want to eat?” I asked as we walked out into the parking lot to the click of Kristen’s red heels. “Tacos. I know a late-night place.” This made me smile to myself. She always knew exactly where she wanted to eat. She wasn’t one of those women who gave you the “I don’t care” speech and then rejected every suggestion you made. When I pointed this out to her last week, she said she’s already thinking about what she wants for dinner while she’s eating breakfast. I loved that about her. I loved a lot of things about her.

Iris's favorite item at Tenta is anago, sea eel. Unlike its freshwater cousin unagi, anago is neither endangered nor expensive. A whole anago at Tenta is about $7.50. I ordered one, and the chef pulled a live eel out of a bucket. It wriggled like, well, an eel. Iris screamed as water droplets flew toward us. The chef managed to wrestle the unruly thing into the sink and knocked it unconscious before driving a spike into its head and filleting it. He unzipped two fillets in seconds. A Provençal saying holds that a fish lives in water and dies in oil; in the world of tempura, a fish can go from watery cradle to oily grave in ten seconds. Iris loved fried eel meat, dipped in salt, but this is not her favorite part of the anago. After filleting the eel, the chef takes its backbone- hone in Japanese- ties it in a simple overhand knot, and tosses it into the frying oil. "Hone," he says, presenting it to Iris, who considers it the ultimate in crispy snack food- and this is a kid who considers taco-flavored Doritos a work of genius (OK, so do I).

But I still think you should give Ms. Rothschild a chance. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.” “Well, I’d hate to see you get your hopes up,” Daddy says. “That’s life,” Kitty says. “Things don’t always work out. Look at Lara Jean and Peter.” I give her a dirty look. “Gee, thanks a lot.” “I’m just trying to make a point,” she says. Kitty goes over to Daddy and puts her arms around his waist. This kid is really pulling out all the stops. “Just think about it, Daddy. Tacos. Nuns. Nazis. And Ms. Rothschild.

Texas Taco Depository: Let us assassinate your hunger! The restaurant barely qualified as a hole in the wall, but I loved it.

the most painful part was that deep down I KNEW I was a total rock star, that I had the power to give and receive and love with the best of ‘em, that I could leap tall buildings in a single bound and could create anything I put my mind to and . . . What’s that? I just got a parking ticket? You have got to be kidding me, let me see that. I can’t afford to pay this, it’s like my third one this month! I’m going down there to talk to them right now . . . then, doop de do, off I’d go, consumed once again by low-level minutiae, only to find myself, a few weeks later, wondering where those few weeks went and how it could possibly be that I was still stuck in my rickety-ass apartment, eating dollar tacos by myself every night.