So, earlier today (like 15 minutes ago) I found a recipe for huevos rancheros (it was on pinterest...I want to hate it and love it at the same time). It looked really appetizing to me.
My taste buds are kind of weirding me out lately. But in a good way?
Like, between conference sessions on Saturday, Mike and I went to the gym. And when we got home from the gym, those sneaky snakes over at some Chinese place left a takeout menu on our door and then my stomach was going to die, just DIE!, if I didn't get some sweet and sour chicken post haste (we did not pay for it to be delivered, ugh waste of money. No, Mike went and got it. I didn't feel bad about sending him off for food while I stayed home and cleaned off all the sweaty grossness, because that man would cross a desert and 5 oceans for Chinese food. In fact, if I ever suggest it, his face lights up like it's Christmas morning).
So Mike brings home the food, and I'm enjoying the look of all of that sweet and sour goodness, when I begin contemplating the sliced carrots and onions which accompanied my chicken.
At this juncture I feel I should tell you (in case you've missed it on my blog before) that I am not friends with onions. Or peppers. But for some reason lately they've been looking especially tasty and I've been putting peppers and onions in recipes when typically I ignore them completely. And also, salads. It's weird. I know.
I think Jupiter must be aligned with Neptune and they're in the seventh moon or something.
Anyways, I'm looking at those carrots and onions, and I stabbed two onions with my fork, and I went ahead and ate them and also enjoyed them in the process.
Whenever things like this happens, Mike gets this kind of humored/know-it-all smile on his face like "this woman, I've been trying to tell her for years..."
It's so difficult being married to a know-it-all. Just ask my husband.
Back to those huevos rancheros. There was a big blob of salsa on them. And it looked good.
Now here is the part where you're going to laugh at me. Or something. I love salsa (hello, chips and queso is my greatest downfall, so chips and salsa is a very close cousin to that) but...when I've had it at home, in the past, I've strained it to get rid of all of the chunks of onions and peppers.
I know, I'm a weird person. For many other reasons than the salsa thing.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm going to finally eat huevos rancheros. You know, when I get around to making them.
Also, whenever I hear/see the word 'huevos' it brings two stories to mind. Please be seated, I will share them with you now.
When Holly (you know, the person that's the reason I'm a big sister) took Spanish in high school, she was studying for a test with a friend of hers, and huevos was on the vocabulary list. It means eggs by the way, in case you didn't know. She had trouble remembering what it meant, and her friend said "I like to remember huevos by thinking of a horse stamping an egg on the sidewalk with its front hooves. Huevos, hooves."
He went on to demonstrate with his hands.
Kind of like this:
I still laugh when I remember Holly's reenactment of the study session.
Huevos also make me think about the time Jeff worked at Mazzio's.
Oh Mazzio's. The place of so many birthday dreams. It was a pizza place in Tyler, that had (what I thought at the time) the most wonderful pizza and also a creepishly dark arcade room. Everyone who was anyone had a birthday party there. I never did...but I went to plenty of them! (for the record, this particular Mazzio's location has since burned down and was replaced by a crappy Mexican restaurant. It's a crying shame)
So Jeff, my eldest sibling, worked in the kitchen there his freshmen year of high school. One night the manager came into the kitchen, very distressed. He asked if anyone knew Spanish because there was a family ordering who spoke no English and he didn't know what they wanted.
Jeff, being the wise 15 year old that he was, and having a good semester of high school Spanish under his belt, volunteered to help.
He went up front and understood that they wanted a large cheese, but they wanted another one that he couldn't figure out. They went back and forth for a few minutes, both him and the dad of the family getting frustrated because they couldn't understand each other, until Jeff blurts out some random sentence that comes into his head:
"Donde esta las cucarachas para mis huevos?"
(not only does huevos refer to eggs in Spanish, but also....balls. Jeff essentially asked "Where are the cockroaches for my balls?" Also he said something like "Mi bano esta verde con gatos.")
The family looked at him like he was crazy, then the dad started laughing really hard at my gringo brother, and they decided on dos grandes de queso.
The bottom line is, I wouldn't ask the Easter bunny to leave his huevos.
Because I don't know which of the two he's going to leave...