So why tacos and tequila? Because I woke up craving Mexican food but all the joints nearby were packed like sardine cans. Screw waiting in line, I’ll just make my own damn tacos.
First I raided my fridge – total disaster zone. Found half an onion growing green hair and some sad ground beef sweating in its package. Grabbed my keys and drove to the supermarket real quick.
Got ground beef, limes, cilantro – all the usual suspects. Couldn’t find corn tortillas for shit though. Aisle looked like locusts came through. Settled for flour ones even though purists would murder me for it. Whatever.
Back in my kitchen, I cranked the skillet screaming hot. Dumped the beef in with some chopped onions and garlic. Let that baby sizzle until it turned crusty brown around the edges. Threw in chili powder and cumin like I was feeding an army.
While that cooked, I took three limes to the face. Zested ’em, juiced ’em into a pitcher. Added cheap tequila because I ain’t fancy. Dumped in triple sec and sugar syrup. Stirred it all up with some ice cubes rattling like maracas.
Tortillas went straight on the gas burner flames. Watch them bitches bubble up and char! Spanked an avocado into guacamole. Cilantro and tomatoes got rough-chopped. By now the kitchen smelled like a taqueria on fire.
Piled everything onto plates – meat, tortillas, fixings. Poured the margaritas salt-first down the glasses. Took one giant bite… and the taco shell cracked sideways. Beef chunks went skydiving onto my shirt. Typical.
Washed it down with tequila punch that burned going down. Realized I forgot the damn cheese. Oh well. Just ate standing over the stove like a savage. Taste? Absolute banger. Mess? Epic. But that’s the tequila talking now.