As a kid growing up on Misty Lane, Wednesday night was TACO NIGHT. Just like Thursday night was Spaghetti night and Friday night was Pizza night and Saturday morning we were allowed to have a donut from Acme. (My God, can you imagine—a donut every week?) But there was comfort to this routine and I know that my parents still have pizza night every Friday, though since my brother moved away and the twenty-first century assault on carbohydrates ensued, they probably no longer do Taco or Spaghetti nights.
Last week when my mom sent me the package of things from home, I allowed myself to crave tacos again, something I’ve been suppressing since the moment I realized that your average Hungarian likens salsa to BBQ sauce and thinks cilantro is a Mexican singer:
So last night I brought back TACO NIGHT and I must say it was a sweeping success. Wednesday night is also wine night here and the combination of the two in addition to the incredible evening weather made for an amazing night.
Györgyi has never had a proper taco, which I find to be deeply emotionally and spiritually disturbing. But she really liked it. Much more than the Oreos I made her try at Thanksgiving and the jalapeno poppers we ate one time in January.
We sat on the balcony, which looks out over the thirteenth district. It was the first night where there wasn’t even a chill in the air, and so watching the sun set over the river and slowly sink down the old apartment windows was beautiful.
I would never have thought to start up a taco night in combination with wine night, but since my mom loaded up my box with taco seasonings, I’ll be able to keep the tradition alive for a little while at least. Now, if I could only find cilantro.