October 20, 2017 – After 15 years of marriage, I thought I knew my wife pretty well. It turns out she’s a stranger to me.
Taking a morning walk with the Toddler – which consists of her alternatively wanting to ride in the stroller, walk, for her mother to carry her or not to have come on the walk in the first place – my wife and I discussed dinner plans.
“We can have nachos,” my wife said. “Everybody likes nachos.”
True enough, but we’d recently had nachos.
“No,” I said. “Too soon. How about pizza?”
She shook her head. “The kids had pizza at school.”
Darn. Then it hit me. The perfect food. A food that was introduced into the United States from Mexico in the 1800s and has grown to become one of the most popular foods for people like me who don’t care about their waistline.
“I know. Tacos.”
She paused. I walked back to her.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
Husbands must ask this. If my wife looks like something’s wrong, it’s usually one of two things: 1) she doesn’t like what she’s wearing and we’re too far away from home to do anything about it, or 2) she’s upset by something I’ve done, but wouldn’t have mentioned it unless I’d brought it up.
It’s a lose-lose folks.
“I’ve never told you this,”she started.
I panicked. What? Did she tell her mother I don’t like the family spaghetti sauce recipe? Does she not like “Star Trek”? Is she watching “Game of Thrones” without me?
No. What my wife said was worse.
“—I don’t like tacos,” she finished.
The shock was like being hit in the face with a frozen Chimichanga.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
Her words were familiar. I mean, I knew all of them, I just never expected to hear them in that order.
“I don’t like tacos,” she said again then started walking like she hadn’t just shattered my worldview. “Tacos are a giant mess. They fall apart as soon as you take a bite. And you either get a mouthful of chip and lettuce or chip and meat, never all the ingredients at once.”
Not a reason.
“B-b-b-but,” I stammered. “They’re tacos.”
Although I believed that would be a good enough answer for any rational human being, it wasn’t.
“I say, just get a taco salad and be done with it.” She wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t she see my pain? “That’s what you’re eating anyway by the time that taco falls apart on your plate and you have to finish it with a fork.”
“No,” I may have said too loudly given the response of the neighborhood dogs. “A taco salad is not a salad and it’s not a taco, so it’s lying to you with both of its names. Like light beer.”
She shrugged and walked ahead.
My wife doesn’t like tacos? That’s hard for me to grasp. I thought everybody liked tacos. Americans eat an average of 4.5 billion tacos a year, for crying out loud. We even have a day named after a taco, and it happens every Tuesday.
Find out about everything Jason at jasonoffutt.com.