wienerdog tricks.

Christmas Tacos. I'm here for you.

No--I'm no her, her or her. And I'm certinaly not her (though I do cook every last thing she tells me to). But I do know really good taco filling when I make it.

Backstory: I have been toiling for eleven long years to make taco meat that surpasses everybody's favorite:

 

Because my (complex) husband has a (complex) onion allergy, I am hog-tied for moments like the "Hey let's have tacos oh all we need to do is throw in that mix that I keep 84 of in the pantry and we'll have a great taco night and it won't even be a big deal great let's have taco night tonight." Instead, I stand sweating at the skillet shaking cumin and chili powder and praying to the Taco Gods that this batch will taste better than the last.

It's been a long eleven years.

And then LAST NIGHT they arrived (the Taco Gods, I mean) and sent this batch of meat from heaven. It's in this little cookbook (which I highly recommend because it's organized by season, which is so. smart.)

 

 

And I know it's Christmas. And tacos don't seem Christmasy. But hello--how many nights can you eat ham? And is it just me or do you have an extra 32 people in your house who are hungry and who are looking at you? And haven't you already called pizza once for them? Like I said: I'm here for you.

Merry Christmas Tacos.

1 lb ground turkey, 1 cup beans (kidney, black, whatever . . .maybe not garbanzo), 1 onion, 1 pepper: fry this stuff up together. And yes I know it sounds weird to put beans right in there, but trust me that it gives the whole thing a whole other goodness.

3 cloves garlic, 1 tablespoon fresh cilantro, 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, 2 teaspoons chili power, 2 teaspoons lime juice, 1 teaspoon ground cumin, 1/2 teaspoon salt, dash of something spicy if you like it that way: stir all this in there until the garlic seems cooked.

Eat it straight out of the skillet with a chip until your family catches you. Serve.

I will always serve ham with tater tots.

I came to this realization the other night when we had our (belated because of my 8-yr-old's stomach flu) easter ham-orama dinner.

There I was without potatoes. Me: calling my husband with an unnecessarily frantic potato errand. And then I realized: I have TATER TOTS because of this. I know: tater tots are neither 'taters nor tots, but I had them because they are one of the better inventions of the Industrial Food Complex. (Just because I read Michael Pollan doesn't mean I don't eat crap sometimes.)

So I went for it. Because I found that I had this inner conversation about what I should serve and I what I wanted to serve. (I know: you think I think too much.) But I went for it and I have to tell you that I was really happy to see those little taters in my turquoise pyrex bowl. 

And I realized that I need to always serve something sort of funny when I cook for other people. It was a sort of Hostess Valium for me to boldly Not Deliver Perfection. I almost wanted to yell: BRING OUT THE TOTS when I was setting the food out on the table.

So, I think it's going to be something on a stick for my next soiree. (Cheese dogs! Does anybody remember the girls in the red/blue/yellow/white hats at the mall in the 80's who sold the CHEESE DOGS?) Super good idea.

I'm going to have to buy a Fry Daddy.

AUTO.

This button poses a real problem for me. It is, I think, at the utter CRUX of my difficulties in the kitchen. ON, I get. OFF, I get. But AUTO? It's a real problem for me. I totally trust AUTO. Like I can put anything in there and it will AUTOmatically turn into something good. 

Okay, let me back up.

So I'm having some friends over for dinner tonight. They're actually coming from out of town for an all-family slumber party. They are the kind of friends that can bring all 38 of their kids and scramble them with all 38 our kids and they'll all mash together on the floor and have a time of it. Who needs a guest room? C'mon. 

Anyway, so here's me to myself: Spaghetti. I'll make spaghetti. 

Because spaghetti is, of course,the solution for feeding hoards of group combos that include adults and kids. Plus, it can THEORETICALLY be thrown together and left to sit and perfect. Automatically.

So I go at my sauce. I bought this 106 oz. can of tomato puree. And this, sadly, is the number I'm not exaggerating about. 106 oz. (My friend to me later: This might be the reason why Costco is a problem for you.)

So in classic Me Believing That Cooking Is A Type of Magic Where You Stand Near Heat and Your Ingredients Miraculously Improve Themselves fashion, I proceed.

And what I proceed to do is create a warm version of thin tomato paste. Good one. Put me down.

So, I call my friend who can cook anything better than anybody (Seriously true.) and ask for help (which is, I would like to add, not easy for me since I am like that guy in 28 Days (the movie starring my relative, Sandra Bullock--ask me later) with the cardboard sign around his neck that says "Make Me Ask For Help.") But I call. Because people are coming and I don't want to serve a vat of bad Chef Boyardee noodles. I want good sauce. And she is nice. She tries not to laugh. She makes the costco crack, but then mostly, she suggests things like sauteing shallots in butter (which I am ALWAYS glad to do) and my sauce is back on track--one monstrous armload of meat and spices at a time. I think I can redeem it.

All this has made me realize that I have a disorder in the kitchen. Because I really do believe that the automatic button exists--that if you combine things they WILL taste good. I have come face to face that cooking is a sort of religious act for me: I think I will show up and be met by some sort of Spirit of Flavorfulness who will sprinkle and ooze itself all over whatever weird ingredients I am willing to mix in the pot cauldron. Like heat = magic. Seriously. Really? Yes. Really. 

Dangit. I hope the sauce is decent. I'll let you know. In the meantime, I will be filing for one of those special tax forms where you get write offs for inventing your own special religion.