Have I intrigued you enough to continue reading?
Good.
Stay awhile.
We knew that when we signed up for this challenge, there would be some interesting meals along the way. No problem. We both know our way around a kitchen fairly well. We're pretty adaptable when it comes to flavor profiles and trying new things on the menu from time to time. Tonight, we put our mettle to the test. Cue the Chris Isaak lyrics, because "Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing... I Feel Like Crying."
Oh boy, do I feel like crying right now. Ugh.
It all started with some limp zucchini--two limp, slightly wrinkled, aesthetically horrifying zucchini--to be exact. Knowing they had to become part of our dinner tonight, and their shelf life was literally ticking away before our eyes, I put them out on the counter. Then I kept the fridge door open, and kept digging. What else had to get used up ASAP? A quarter of a vidalia onion, three soft flour tortillas, an overripe tomato, four teaspoons of sour cream, half a pound of ground beef/venison mix, a quarter of a head of lettuce, and half a bag of opened shredded cheese. The whole lot was placed onto the counter. What in blazes was I going to make of this pile?
Enter the husband. He had just returned home from work, was cheerful about his day, and exuberant with high hopes that I was starting dinner, which I sort of was. Glancing at the counter, he said, "Ooh, tacos, huh?" I played it cool as if that was what I was going with all along. "Yeah, tacos." I emphatically nodded. "Is that OK?" Assuring me it was, I got to work. I had magic to perform tonight.
Sweet, culinary magic.
The onion was chopped, and sauteed with the ground beef/venison, and seasoned as per tacos usually are. This encouraged me. Everything else was a no brainer, sort of. Looking at the flour tortillas, I knew three would not be enough. My voracious consumer-of-tacos husband can easily eat three soft shelled tacos without batting an eye. I had to find another vehicle for the goods.
I began to search the nether regions of the top shelf pantry cupboard. You know--the place where things go on purpose to either be forgotten, or to multiply to your chagrin. This is where candy corn and cream of mushroom soup reside--two things that we will never rid the world of for all of eternity. When the apocalypse comes, and all that's left are a few cockroaches and zombies, they will certainly be eating cream of mushroom soup and candy corn.
Shining like a beacon in the night, I saw it...the cardboard box of my dreams. CRUNCHY TACO SHELLS. No way! How did those get in here? Jay HATES crunchy tacos. HATE. HATE. HATE. Had we signed a prenuptial agreement, I'm certain some clause about me never making crunchy tacos as long as I lived would have been in the fine print. Still... here they were.
I finished the taco filling, set out the aforementioned accoutrements, sauteed the sad zucchini, and sent a prayer up to the heavens: "Dear Lord, thank you for this wonderful resourceful bounty, the wherewithal to make a meal out of odds and ends, and the nourishment that it will provide to us tonight. Amen."
Jay then had the epic idea to rifle through the random assortment of condiment packets in the refrigerator door. In doing so, he produced a generous handful of Taco Bell sauce packets. After all, we're out on a journey to use EVERYHING that we have, and these, well... were there. Their cryptic messages should have served as a warning to me, but they didn't.
I didn't listen to their wisdom:
We divided the bit of cooked zucchini--albeit an odd side dish to tacos-- and sat down to eat dinner. I was truly excited about the whole crunchy taco shell thing. I thought I just had some dumb fortuitous luck for a Monday night in finding them. Crunch. Crunch. Uh oh.
That's when the burning started.
It wasn't a pleasant sort of Mexican-cuisine type of burning. Rather, it was a, "Oh-no-what-did-I-just-eat-I-feel-like-I-just-ate-a-can-of-oven-cleaner" sort of feeling. Pain. The smell was more than just stale taco shell. It was vile. I spit it out.
Jay looked at me rather oddly, and then grinned in a way that seemed to say he won the crunchy vs. soft shell taco debate. Then he realized something was seriously wrong. I sprang up and ran to the kitchen counter to retrieve the taco shell box. There, I looked the box over-- no tampering, and it had been unopened up until now. Then I saw it:
Disgustedly, I threw the box into the trash, dumped the innards from my taco shells onto my plate, and disposed of the outsides. I still consumed the rest of what was there, and for the record, zucchini makes for some pretty awful taco shells, too. Ick. It was gross, but it was dinner.
I learned three things today on our no-grocery challenge:
1. I'm probably never eating another crunchy taco shell again. Jay won this battle.
2. I'm meticulously checking the expiration dates of all unopened food in my cupboard. Even if it looks OK, I'm going to be leery of it.
3. I'd better be on my culinary "A game" tomorrow. Tonight was an F- minus.
To be fair, karma must have seemed to feel a need to "make things right" with me after the Chernobyl Taco fiasco, for as I sat and watched Jay pick up his first soft shelled taco to take a bite, I laughed with glee as the slightly dry-tortilla gave way, and the entire contents blew out the side.
Well played, universe. Well played.
Presently, I'm enjoying an adult beverage in the hopes that some good bourbon will kill off any sort of chemical vermin that may have been in those two horrid bits of taco shell that were semi-ingested. Also, I'm feverishly researching the Internets for what may potentially happen to me due to my stupidity. Thus far, I've narrowed it down to either: I will be fine, or I'll die a horrible death by morning.
If I don't post tomorrow, do know that it's been a fun ride.
Thanks for coming along with us on it so far.
--SH