Tonight, against Kevin’s better judgment, we ate at the Mexican restaurant on the square. Usually I get the Chile Colorado, a beefy thing with a spicy (not hot, just flavored) sauce served alongside rice and soft tortillas. Tonight, however, I ordered Chilequiles, which have been incredible when I’ve had them other places and fantastic when we made them at home. Tonight I found out “chilequiles” is a loosely held description of food, widely interpreted by whomever is preparing it. I was expecting something smoky, vegetable-y, with a good sauce and something to dip in it. What I got was not unlike fajita meat, with onions and green peppers seared within an inch of their little lives, and salted up to the moon. I haven’t stopped drinking water all night, and I don’t think I’ve peed in the last 5 hours. Kevin got fish tacos, on my advice, and hated it. Hank got a cheeseburger, which none of us understood, and it looked really dry. Owen ate bits and pieces off all our plates, and waited until just before bed to consume yogurt, an apple with peanut butter, and a banana with honey. He is like a little flea, barely a half inch thick, and he can put down something like four pounds of food whenever the topic of going to bed comes up. Anyway, all this has resulted in my stomach ballooning out like a huge bouncy ball, the kind you had as a kid that’s big enough to sit on, you know, this thing. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, I have digestive problems. Always have, even as a kid. It’s so gross I won’t go into it until I see you in person so you can get the full effect of its disgustingness, complete with sound and indications of size (of various properties of this disorder). A nice long walk outside would probably do me a lot of good, but it’s dark now and almost 9 pm and I sort of have a rule about not being by myself in the dark in weird places (like where my neighbors are). Nonetheless, if I make it through the night without having to wear a beer helmet stocked with water bottles, I’ll probably be good in the morning. For now though, an off night at Los Compas has soured me on ever going there again.
Adventures in Gas Land March 5, 2009