Quesadillaphilia

Color me nuts! I’ve been eating quesadillas and guacamole for two days straight and plan to continue on for another two. Oh, it’s a wild ride, all right, but this dish is so exquisite that, if it turned out that the patriarchy is responsible for it, I would have to not blame it. It’s that good.

For this batch I used that weirdly bland kind of Monterrey jack cheese that has the red flecks of chile pepper, and a lot of diced red onion and cherry tomato and scallion and cilantro and chopped fresh spinach. Like my ancestors, the earliest Texans, who did not know from tableware, I then repurposed the quesadilla slices as rudimentary spoons/shovels for pushing the guacamole into the gaping Twisty maw.

I would argue that chopped iceberg lettuce is the only appropriate bed for the guacamole.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Iceberg lettuce is too pedestrian for you. It’s flavorless, and pale.

Ah, but it is also crunchy, the yin for delicious avocado puree’s yang, which puree, if it can be said to possess a flaw, is perhaps a teensy bit on the slimy side, texturally speaking.  In fact, I would go so far as to assert that iceberg lettuce is the opposite in principle of guacamole and that both of them must therefore contain the seed of the other, and cannot exist without the other, particularly when in the presence of a quesadilla and my mandibles.

Did I just use the word “repurpose”? Great Scott!

Anyway, a propos of food-related obsessions: a foodumentary documenting everything I ate from July 2004 to February 2005–the philosophical precursor to I Blame The Patriarchy–can be found, with marginalia, here.

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