How many enchiladas can this half-bred Mexican make in a matter of hours, you ask? 36.
Did we include homemade guacamole, salsa, and rice and beans with that? But of course.
My level of human domestication has never been higher.
As planned, Mexican Monday Night went down at the Grice homestead last night. I even switched up my work schedule so I could come in at the crack of dawn, and leave in the afternoon; I needed to entertain my anxiety of cooking for stomachs other than my own.
After last week's Roommate Night, I'd told the boys I could make some mean Mexican food; as I wandered aimlessly around the grocery store yesterday, I reconsidered my bold cooking claim.
But, oh, what a nice time was had.
With the help of two fine Lady Friends, we made enough food to take us into next week (Recession!), we managed to set off the fire alarm -- but fix it in a style that would make Lucille Ball proud -- and we ended the night on the couch, Youtubing Dire Straits and Peter Gabriel, thanks to my fond childhood memories of the music videos for "Money for Nothing" and "Sledgehammer." We threw in some Robert Palmer, for good measure.
Our collective food coma was alive and well.
I had such a good time and newfound appreciation for My Roots that I spent a good part of my morning revisiting some Mexican movie greats.
Remember "Amores Perros"? It stars the beautiful Gael Garcia Bernal and it interweaves three great twisted, distinct storylines into wonderful movie darkness. There's dogfighting, a supermodel who loses her leg, a hitman. Anyone who knows me would know I'd love this movie on that sentence alone.
And, while "La Mala Educacion" (which I wrote about before) is by Pedro Almodóvar, a Spaniard, not a Mexicano, (It's all the same? No, they like tapas, we like grease.), it also stars the beautiful Bernal. This is a particularly bizarre scene, with him studying a transvestite.
Finally, I stumbled upon one other (unrelated) movie scene today, as I was wandering around in my brain tunnels.
I have a Friend arriving in New York on Friday; we were talking about his trip, and he mentioned how glad he was to be getting out of the arctic weather he's been braving. I realized that every time we talk about how unbearably cold it is there, my mind's mental picture calls up "Fargo." While geographically incorrect, he said it was representative of his surroundings.
I said I hoped he had a solid wood chipper, which refers to this lovely little scene.
Hurray for holiday company.