"I Dropped My Chalupa on the Carpet"

 

            My mother didn’t cook Mexican food. In our home, a taco represented the ultimate in Mexican cuisine. As a child, I eagerly anticipated the enchiladas, rice and beans our school served on Wednesdays. That habit of weekly Mexican food became ingrained, and I find I must prepare something with hot sauce and refried beans on a weekly basis. Or we head over to one of our favorite Mexican restaurants for “the real thing.”

            The tacos of my childhood gave way to chalupas after I got married since my husband prefers them. The narrow confines of a taco shell, which usually break when I try to stuff them with ingredients, frustrated me. I converted easily to the flat, easy-to-stack-layers-upon, chalupa shell.

            Over the years, I’ve become a pro at dropping corn tortillas into hot oil without injury. I can cook up ground beef with an assortment of spices to make my mouth water. I can grate cheese effortlessly and efficiently into a six inch mound. I can even make guacamole like an expert.

            I line up all of the ingredients, once ready, into an assembly line that would make Ford envious. Usually, I position two crisp shells upon my plate, slather on a layer of refried beans to glue my meat into place. After I sprinkle the beef onto the shells, I pile on lettuce, tomatoes, guacamole, cheese and hot sauce. Sometimes my creations rise several inches above my plate.

 

 

 

            One day, I balanced two chalupas on a plate in one hand and a nice ice cold glass of milk in the other. I carefully approached the dining room table and set the milk down first. Then, my plate angled just the tiniest bit, and one of my mountainous chalupas slipped and dropped onto the carpet.

            Now, you’d imagine that with all of life’s trials, I wouldn’t remember the demise of one perfect chalupa; but I do. For some odd reason, that slip and slide—which replays in slow motion now—signaled the beginning of a loss of control within my life. This isn’t a bad thing since I tend to over manage everything. The evening I dropped my chalupa on the carpet, I laugh so hard I almost joined it on the floor.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“New Recipes”

            After spending months salivating over different recipes posted (pictures included) on Facebook, I decided to copy and paste anything that appealed to me; and which I knew my family would also like to try. Over the last few weeks, I’ve cut, diced and chopped. I’ve stirred, boiled, and baked. I’ve tasted and savored, and delighted in new aromas and flavor combinations.

            We’ve enjoyed Chicken and Cheese Enchiladas, Cowboy Cornbread and Olive Garden’s Zuppa Toscana Soup. My husband has developed a love for Sticky Bun Breakfast Ring on weekend mornings instead of his usual pancakes. We’ve discovered that we all love strong flavors. If feta cheese is in the recipe, I know I’ll get raving reviews.

            Making changes in life can simply come from adding a new spice to the rack or finding a tasteful way to cook Kale. Little adjustments and experiments often lead to the most unexpected findings, both about cooking—and about life!

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Adventures with the Dentist—Part 2”

            My calendar says it all, “LIZ:  DENTIST 9:00.”

            By 9:20, I stretched out on the padded dental chair, where I’d exchanged my bifocals for sunglasses. The radio, set to oldies (for me, I’m certain, as both the endodontist and his assistant look pretty young). During the first tune, a multitude of shots delivered pain killers around my tooth. I tapped out the bass drum as numbness encroached across my lips and over my cheek. By the end of the second song, I felt nothing.

            Now, I haven’t had a root canal in over fifteen years. Actually, I’ve had practically no dental work done at all within this last decade, so I wasn’t prepared for the changes that tried to minimize my discomfort. Imagine my surprise when the assistant placed a little “pillow” into my mouth to rest my right teeth upon while the drill sizzled through my molar on the left. What a luxury not to have to willfully hold my mouth open, and at just the precise width, while the specialist worked.

When the fourth song, “Dance with Me,” began, I found myself relaxing into the chair, visualizing myself at the beach with warm coconut suntan lotion smoothing my skin and an ice cold Coke (not diet) quenching my thirst. Rod Stewart, played over the drill’s hum as conversation about a weekend spent weeding flowed over me. I found myself chuckling at one point when the chat took on a humorous tone.

          I did a mental dance while The Pure Prairie League’s “Amie” filled the room. This helped me ignore the sound of the picking and scraping of the hand tools as the dentist probed to make certain he’d gotten out all infected tissue. A couple of more x-rays guided him to go a little deeper. Finally, he told me everything looked pretty good and explained that his next step would be to pack in the antibiotics and place a temporary sealant on the tooth. Removing his mask, he smiled broadly as he announced that I wouldn’t need a new crown. After a week to let the antibiotics work, I’ll return for the last part of my treatment.

            I bounced out of the office absolutely elated with this news, my twisted grin reminding me of Lurch when I glanced into the rearview mirror. I debated filling the prescription for the 800 mg of ibuprofen as I waited at the light. At the last second, I turned left instead of going straight, heading to our local pharmacy. Upon arriving home, I bragged to Paul and Mom that this procedure proved completely pain free, but I had these horse pill tablets to take in case I had any discomfort later on.

            The pain hit at exactly 2:33. I’d downed one ibuprofen as a precaution around noon. I tried to take a nap, but Mom could only manage to give me an hour before she wanted to go to the bathroom and eat dinner. As for me, I want something soft for dinner, like cheesy and oozy enchiladas.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman