The last thing I put in my fridge was homemade chicken tacos. Fried, diced, seasoned, simmered. Just waiting to be added to a soft shell with some cheddar cheese and baby butter lettuce. Cooking at lunch leaving lots of leftovers is the go-to since Muse arrives in the evenings now. I delightfully amuse her since spending time with her is my happy place. Doesn’t even feel like work. She doesn’t like when I stop to cook — and sometimes even to eat. Keeping her happy is job one so lunch is dinner and dinner is leftovers.
My 50-percent southern blood may be taking over the European portion. The fam down south always ate dinner at noon and supper at 5. Dinner was bigger than supper, but let’s face it, all meals were huge. Most included vegetables from my great-grandfather’s farm. All featured something dipped in fat and fried, then dipped and fried again. On that side, our family coat of arms is just a bunch of clogged arteries. And it’s all good.
The taco recipe isn’t from them, though. That came from other southerners, former family members (by law, you know). Left them where they are, but took the taco recipe with me. Cull. Shuck. Separate the wheat from the chaff and all.
It’s not Tuesday, but any day is a good-for-tacos day. Southern fam would never forget to eat, but I have, this week especially because Muse is on a roll. She’s a typical introvert, like me — extremely quiet until she knows she’s connected then she talks so much she could power a small southern town.
But after supper, we just sit on the porch swing and breathe in the night air. Hush, puppies. I’m relaxing after a hard day’s/night’s work.
Standing on the beach at twilight, watching the surf rolling onto the sand, wave after wave, one right after the next. Trying to make the best of a bad situation, but not everyone goes with the ebb and the flow.