Context: based on personal desire to stuff myself with Mexican food (“Make me some beans, and don’t screw them up like that one time… please.“) I sprang into action and cooked some of my Handcrafted Artisan Refried Beans. Ok, maybe just refried beans. But I do make them from scratch, and they are delicious. If you’re curious, the ingredients are pinto beans, lard, bacon grease, and salt. That’s it. I personally prefer a hint of cayenne and cumin, but that alone constitutes “screwing them up,” so I add that later for my individual portions. Anyway…
The Incident: I had successfully executed a massive batch of beans, filling our 16″ cast iron skillet to the rim. They were warm, brown, and bubbly. I warmed tortillas and got the cheese and hot sauce ready to load up my digestive system with a bomb of epic proportions that I could enjoy sharing with most of the people I know over the course of the next several days. We filled and wrapped, carefully doing our patented “non-splooging burrito tortilla fold” and set off to watch the news with our beany rewards.
Iwas very pleased as I’d stuck to the minimalist recipe, and sitting with myself I inhaled my two bean-n-cheese masterpieces and about half a bag of corn chips. We paused after scarfing to actually hear the news. I stifled a healthy belch that opened up a vast tract of new stomach space, and quietly got up to go back to the kitchen where the package of tortillas and cheese beckoned. I’d managed to warm up my one additional tortilla before all hell broke loose.
I have no idea what mycue was. Maybe it was the resonance of the metal spoon on the cast iron, or the whisper of the plastic tortilla packaging. Perhaps it was the telltale thumping of my weight on our antique house’s kitchen floor. I will never know, but obviously I was emitting strong “husband committing misdeeds” waves at that moment. From the living room, hell’s fury was unleashed.
I don’t think I can adequately communicate the pure rage directed at me for attempting to eat a third burrito. I know there was some language peppered in the sentences hurled at me regarding portion control, my prior complaints about my own weight, and a pre-emptive strike at tomorrow’s inevitable morning-movement bowel complaints and after action review. At the time it was virtually impossible to tell as most of the salient points were interspersed with some ancient ur-language born somewhere around Dante’s 500th level. Noting her posture, I maintained steady eye contact, made no sudden moves, and backed out of the kitchen with minimal lateral movements and keeping my hands relaxed and at hip-level.
The summary of this whole incident is that I’m a healthier and happier man because of the Burrito Rage. That’s my story. I’m sticking to it.