It was a rainy day. I didn’t realize I wasn’t on my game until I was on my home from the grocery store and realized I hadn’t bought enough meat for the tacos. I called my aunt, frantically, since she was on her way, and begged her to pick up any type of boneless meat she chose, explaining that I bought meat, just not enough. She agreed.
Hard-shell taco with meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and onions (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I rested for a bit while my kids napped, feeling no real urgency to start the food. My husband was a little anxious and asked me twice what should go into the crock pot for the chili. Once the kids woke up and my company had arrived, I instructed him to put the two packages of ground chicken I’d bought, canned tomatoes, kidney beans, and spices, and to set it to ‘high’.
It was after 4pm.
My husband cut up chicken while I cooked the ground beef (here, I’ll omit the part where the grocery store ground up old beef with new beef, forcing me to physically separate it, throwing the older stuff in the trash). Once it was browned, I began to season it.
“This cumin is really bland,” I told my husband, after the fifth time of shaking it in. I’d also realized that I’d completely forgotten how to season taco meat. After a few minutes of tasting, I’d realized I’d forgotten the turmeric. We found it, and I poured in a little turmeric. Not enough. I poured in a little more. Almost enough. I opened the container again, not realizing there was an opening to ‘pour’ – and guess what – a good two heaping teaspoons fell in the pan.
I scooped out what I could, mixing the meat, hoping it would still be fine, but knowing that it wouldn’t. I tasted it. It was rather mustardy. Not the flavor profile one would want for tacos.
“Dammit!” I said, pouring in more of all the spices, trying to balance it out.
I asked my husband to taste it. He made a face, saying it was ‘bitter’.
I poured some water in the pan and let it simmer, hoping it would work itself out.
Meanwhile, the two pounds of slimy ground chicken, beans, and tomatoes sat in the crock pot, refusing to cook. It was after five. I told him we’d have to put it in a pan and cook it on the stove instead.
He dumped it into a pan for me and I cranked that sucker up to 9. It started to boil. It looked like prison slop (hello, who forgot to brown the meat first!?!), slimy and gray among chunks of tomatoes..
I kept going back to the beef, checking and rechecking, adding onion and garlic.
“Looks like we’re having pizza,” my husband said quietly.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Cut up the lettuce, tomatoes, olives, and onions, and shred the cheese.”
The beef wasn’t getting better, and the chili was boiling like, well, a giant vat of prison slop. I told my husband it looked like school lunch chili, except school lunch chili looked better.
“Just let it cook down,” I said to him. That became my mantra. I let that shizz boil for a good half hour, stirring occasionally so it wouldn’t stick to the pan. It smelled like paprika. That’s all I knew.
When we were almost done, I joined the rest of my family in the living room, informing them about the faux pas.
“I’m just warning you. I kind of messed up today,” I told them. “But there’s little sour cream and cheese can’t fix, right?”
They agreed.
I went back into the kitchen and prepared rice and refried beans, got out the salsas and tortilla chips. I really wanted to throw it all away, but I couldn’t justify throwing out four pounds of meat.
I walked into the living room again and said, “If all else fails, I did buy the big can of refried beans. And there’s rice, and tortilla chips.”
If there are two things you don’t want to screw up, they’re Indian and Mexican. Well, and sushi. So, three things. The consequences can be dire. When everything was done, I assessed the scene, figuring, really, how could all of it be bad if we have all this stuff to put on it? We could just make nachos or something, right?
And then the moment of truth arrived. I’d tasted the beef so many times hoping for it to magically transform, I was getting sick, but I didn’t touch the chili once (mostly for fear of salmonella) while it boiled violently on the stove.
I put a spoon in and took a bite. It looked like hell run over by a truck, but, by George, it was good. Like, really tasty.
I held the spoon out to my husband. He said, “I don’t want salmonella.”
I told him it was fine. He tasted it.
“Mmm. That’s good,” he said, with an air of disbelief. I wanted to hi-five with him for pulling this meal out of our asses (bad pun, I know), but it wasn’t quite time.
We called everyone to the kitchen. We made the kids each a chicken taco and gave them chips. They ate every single bite. And my husband, aunt, and uncle all had two plates, telling me how good everything was.
Now, I don’t know if they went home and died (I should probably check on them), but everyone here is perfectly fine.
In fact, I’m probably going to have some chili for lunch.
Moral of the story? I really don’t know. I just got lucky. But if I had to pick one, I’d say ‘Brown Your Meat First’. Or ‘Make Sure You Remember How to Season Taco Meat Before You Cook it for Seven People’.
Something like that.
I’m not cooking today, though. I need a break.
