Tag: Food

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Ask A Texan 5.9.25, The Land Of A Thousand Lakes


Plenty of good, often accurate advice for folks who don’t Live In Texas but wish they did. It’s easy to find on Apple Maps, but darn hard to leave once you get here.

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from The Land O’ Lakes Fishing Camp and Vacation Cottages, Lake Minnetonka, Minnesota. Thanks to their rebellious daughter, Sassy, Mr. Franklin Kettle and his wife, Phoebe, affectionately known as Ma and Pa, are on their good Lutheran last nerve.

Pa Kettle: Mr. Texan, I’m not much on asking for or taking any kinda advice from anyone other than our Minister at the Shakopee Lutheran Church, but seeing that the root cause of me and the missus distress started in Texas, I thought to myself, by-golly-gosh, maybe this wise old Texan can save the farm, doncha know. Our daughter, Sassy, and her husband, Tiberius, and their brood of kiddos live here at the fishing camp and help run the place; it’s a family business passed down from my grandpappy. We have twenty nice and tidy cabins with kitchens and screened-in sleeping porches, and Ma and I run the tackle and bait shop at the main dock: there’s not a prettier slice of Heaven on the lake. We Minnesotans are nice and tidy folks, and we run a polite camp with no hard hooch allowed and only beer after five in the afternoon. A while back, Sassy comes to me and says, “Daddy, me and Tiberius are taking the kiddos and the dogs and are going camping out in the desert in far West Texas. We need to reconnect with God and we hear that the Big Bend area around Marfa is the preferred place. Besides, Tiberius likes the way my earrings lay against my skin so brown, and I want to sleep with him in the desert at night, with a million stars all around.”

I say, ” Golly-Geez, Sassy, we have millions of stars right over the lake here and you don’t need to go travel’n to Texas to see-um; that trips gonna be spendy.”

She said, ” It’s not the same, Daddy; the stars here don’t give us that peaceful, easy feeling, doncha know. ”

Next morning, they loaded up my 1965 Ford Fairlane 500 station wagon, with 25K original miles, and hit the road. I tried to give her some emergency money, but she said it was covered. Tiberius sold a kidney to the University hospital and has the option to sell both testicles and both pinky toes in the future. After three weeks, Ma and me are getting kinda worried. I’m pacing the dock, and she’s spending most of her time in the sleeping loft with a worry headache. Then, one sunny afternoon, they roared up to the main dock. My Fairlane looks like it got trampled by Old Babe The Blue Ox. The brood walks into the tackle store, and the missus and me have a conniption fit. The kiddos have long, dirty hair and are wearing nothing but JCPenney boxers and the two boys have fishing lures hanging in their hair. Tiberius is wearing a beat-up straw cowboy hat and has God Bless Texas tattooed on his bare chest. Sassy is wearing old cut-off dungaree shorts and one of her old nursing brassiere she dyed red. I’m thinking, Geez-Louise, what has happened to these folks in the name of Joseph and Mary?

Nowadays, the grandkiddos are going around the dock spitting on the floor, breaking wind and saying things like, “fixing to, Hide and watch, hold my Pop and watch this, and the worst one is, ” Let’s not get into a pissing contest about it.” When the granddaughter, Little Pebble, said that, that’s when I by-golly drew the line and said, ” Nobodies a going to be urinating in the tackle shop or on the dock for cripes-sakes.This is Minnesota.” My grandkiddos have turned into heathen children, possibly possessed by Demons from the Texas desert. Sassy and Tiberius are no help, they set up house in a Yurt down near the fish cleaning shack and the kiddos are scrounging meals from the dumpster. Ma wants the priest in Saint Paul to come over and exorcise the whole big bunch. Sassy wants us to move to the Texas desert with them and run a campground they can buy with the money from Tiberius selling his body parts. Looking for some help here, doncha know.

The Texan: Well, Mr. Kettle, I’ve never had such a lengthy or disturbing request, but sometimes when a polite culture of folks, like you have in Minnesota, intermingles with a less than couth culture, scenarios like yours happen. It’s common in Texas. I suspect the family may have wandered into El Cosmico, a big pile of old Airstream trailers, Yurts, teepee’s and tents. The place is a hotbed of young hipster hippie types that migrated from Austin and haven’t left Marfa in a good way. The kiddo’s are testing you old folks with their new-founded freedom of expression. Most of those sayings are harmless, except for then pissing contest one: those challenges can get really nasty real quick if there are weapons around. Trust me, The Texan has been in a few. Give it a few months, and if your brood is not back to Minnesota standards, pack them up in the Fairlane and send them back to Marfa. Better them than you, for, after all, that part of Texas is “No country for old men.” Keep in touch, and I sent the kiddos a box of cherry bombs, I hope they enjoy.

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Ask A Texan 4.29.25


Pretty Good And Sometimes Worthless Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas But Wish They Did Because Everything is Bigger and Better In Texas

The Texan and Notes From The Cactus Patch will be offline starting tomorrow, April 30, 2025. Here’s the reason why:

I was pulling up some dead plants and pesky weeds in my landscape, and I reached over a little too far and jerked on a pesky dead plant. I heard a “pop” and felt the rotatory cuff muscle and bicep detach from my shoulder. And, of course, it’s my good arm, the one I use for playing the guitar, painting, writing, shaving, brushing my teeth, and holding my whiskey tumbler. I wouldn’t be so upset if it was my left shoulder. Dr. Pepper, my young surgeon, says he will fix me up, and I’ll be able to use my arm after eight weeks in a special sling. He explained he would be using a small Robot controlled by his Atari game controller, so no humans would be touching me. I’m concerned that the small Robot might make a mistake and go rogue. The little fella looks a lot like R2D2. Dr. Pepper says no worries. The robot will be scrubbed in, and a mask and surgical gloves will be on his little mechanical hands. They had him worked on last week to fix the glitches. I asked what the glitches were? It seems the Robot had malware in his little chipped brain and removed a lady’s liver instead of her gall bladder. That made me feel really warm and fuzzy.

The little Davinci Robot

I had a similar experience when I had cancer. The surgeon needed samples of my poor prostate gland, so he used a robot called “Davinci.” It was larger than this R2D2 and wore a purple cape and a matching Italian Beret. The little fellow got his samples, took one, and put it in an Italian cut-glass jar. It’s sitting on my coffee table.

I’ll be back writing and giving worthless advice soon. God Bless Texas, The Alamo, and Davy Crockett.

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The Sky Is Not Falling


My backyard, a few years ago during Easter week.

Preacher Little, to the left, addresses his small congregation with a firm reminder that the sky is not a-falling and that it’s high time they get a grip on the wild ride we call life. An hour later, a raucous band of Fire Ants laid siege to the squishy Peeps, and thus, the service came to an untimely end. My wise old Grandfather, or maybe it was an old-man neighbor, once opined, “Son, you can’t go traipsing about with your head aimed at the clouds, waiting for a disaster to drop from the sky. Best keep your eyes peeled to the ground, lest you unwittingly find yourself knee-deep in a nest of Fire Ants.”

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Hey Kids, It’s Fun Being Sick!


How Kids Beat The Pandemic In The 1950s

Kids are an intelligent species. They know far more about human interaction and theatrical interpretation than their parents suspect. I can’t put a date on when this anomaly was discovered, but people with fancy degrees and a goatee first noticed this behavior in the early 1950s. My neighborhood may have been ground zero for their study.

As a bunch, the kids in my neighborhood were healthy. We ate mouthfuls of dirt, sucked on pebbles, and ingested every foodstuff imaginable without washing our grimy hands. This was perfectly acceptable to our mothers. Our young immune system was that of a caveman: we scoffed at germs, ” away with you foul vermin.” Like Superman on the TV, we were indestructible.

The only malady that affected us, was the dreaded Monday morning tummy-throat-aching body-virus. This malady usually broke-out in after a thirty or forty day incubation period. It spread like wildfire through our four-block coterie and most of the second and third grades, mostly affecting boys, but the girls were losing their immunity at an alarming rate.

The second week in November, close to Thanksgiving, most of our second-grade class was infected and missing in action. The symptoms were: headache, stomach ache, sore throat, and body aches, sometimes we developed a limp and had to crawl from the bathroom to our bed. When our mothers asked how we felt, we would point at the affected areas and groan, eliciting additional sympathy.

The first morning was the worst, then by noon we recovered enough to watch cartoons and eat some ice-cream, then after supper, the symptoms worsened, and mom made the call for us to stay home another day. Sleeping in was mandatory, and if we were recovered by lunchtime, we could go outside for some fresh air. This bug was known to not last more than three days, tops.

A seven year old can’t grasp the enormity of a situation the way their parents can. As a group, we were unaware that our symptoms matched those of the dreaded Polio Virus. Our kindly school nurse, fearing the worse, calls the health department for back-up.

Two blocks away at George C. Clark Elementary, our diligent principal cancels all classes and has the entire building sanitized by a nuclear cleanup team from Carswell Air Force Base. The newspapers are on this like a duck on a June Bug.

Lounging in bed eating Jell-O, and watching Bugs Bunny cartoons, my cohorts and I are unaware of our neighborhood pandemic.

Tuesday, mid-morning, a contingent of doctors and nurses from the Fort Worth health department, arrive to access the outbreak. They plan to visit every affected home around our school and test every sick child for the dreaded Polio Virus. Large syringes and foot-long throat swabs are required. A dozen ambulances stood by to transport the poor ill children to the hospital. The local newspaper was there, as well as the television news folks.

Skipper, my stalwart best buddy, and the elected grand Poo-Bah of our gang, was the first to break. With two syringes sucking blood from his skinny little kid arms, he sobbed and said he was faking it, we all were faking it. He gave us up like Benedict Arnold. Roger Glen ran screaming from his house when he saw the size of the needles, and the smartest girl in our class, Annie, gave a signed confession. The epidemic was over.

Most of us couldn’t comfortably sit for a few days, but we were all healthy until the next school year. That’s when the Asian bird, chicken, rat, and cat flue got us all.

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The Mooch-O-Matic life Meter


Life Is A Percentage Game

A few weeks ago, my buddy Mooch and I were driving to Glenrose on a little road trip. We often take an adventure when we hear of something worth investigating. The stranger the better to occupy our precious time.

Mooch heard from someone at the feed store that a lady owns a pig that recently received the “Purple Paw,” the most prestigious civilian award an animal can receive for bravery. We have to see this pig for ourselves since Glenrose is right in our back yard.

Two hours of searching, we find the lady and her pig living in the RV Park by the river. This one is a wild goose chase. It seems her little boy didn’t win a prize in the stock show, so she took a purple TCU lanyard and tied a large gold-painted Mardi-Gras coin on the lanyard, making the pig a medal. This satisfied the whining child and turned the pig into a big shot. Now the kid and the pig think they are hot stuff and are raising hell in the RV Park. The expedition wasn’t a complete waste of time, we ate barbecue at the “Squealing Piglet” and topped it off with some pecan pie and Blue Bell ice cream.

Driving back to Granbury, the oil message light came on warning me I had ten percent oil life left on the old Honda. I bragged to Mooch about how smart my car is, and it seems to know everything. I mentioned, jokingly so, that it would be great if some pharmaceutical company could invent a device to tell us, humans, how much life we have left. Mooch, ever the tinkerer, has a small invention lab in his shed and is always coming up with strange things. He said he would look into that. I knew he would.

A week goes by, and Mooch shows up at my door with a white box under his arm. We sit at my kitchen table, and he pushes the box over my way, urging me to open it. Before I could get the lid off, he yells, ” I did it, its the invention we talked about, its a Mooch-O- Matic Life Meter, we are going to be wealthy.”

I open the box and pull out what appears to be a digital children’s thermometer. On the back are a crudely installed USB port and a sticker reading Mooch Matic. I’m impressed that he could invent something like this so quickly. In my book, his rating just increased by twenty points.

Knowing Mooch was about to explode with pride, I ask him,”What’s in this thing and how does it work?”

Mooch proudly exclaims, ” I took a “Tommy Bear In The Summer Sun” children’s digital rectal thermometer, added two chips from a Nokia flip phone, the activation strips from a “Ellen’s Own”digital pregnancy test, a chip from a Martha Stewart Meat Thermometer, a few innards from my old Amazon Firestick and a USB port so you can save the information. Now all that’s left is to test it on a human. I tried it out on my dog Rex, and damn if he doesn’t have 35% life left. The cat saw me testing Rex and is hiding, so now it’s down to you and me. How about you be the next participant?”

I reluctantly agreed to be the first human to test the Mooch-O-Matic. I entered the bathroom, inserted the device into the proper orifice, and waited until I heard the three beeps that signaled the reading was complete. After straightening myself up a bit I exited the bathroom and gave the device to Mooch. He scrolled through a menu and then blurted out, “holy crap, you have 25% life left, you lucky S.O.B.”

Well, there ya go buddy, I’m going to be watching many more Super Bowl’s. Mooch then took the device into the bathroom to test himself. After ten minutes, I’m getting worried so I knock on the door.

In my best-concerned tone, I said, ” Mooch, you okay, little buddy, you didn’t fall and break a hip, did you?” Mooch opened the door, and his face is the color of snow-whites butt. With a shaking hand, he handed me the device. I looked at the reading and was shocked. Mooch has 1.5% life left, which translates to, he could assume room temperature any minute or by morning at the latest. We are both speechless, and Mooch has tears in his old watery eyes.

Without saying a word, he leaves the house, and me holding the prototype of our disappearing wealth. Just for testing sake, I pulled a previously frozen whole chicken from the fridge and inserted the Mooch-O-Matic into the deceased bird’s butt. Three beeps later, the soon to be chicken dinner that has been dead for who knows how long, reads 35% life left.

I thought for a moment about calling poor Mooch to tell him his device is faulty, but he owes me $200.00, so I’ll let him sleep on this until he pays up.

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The Truth About Ambiance in Tex-Mex Restaurants


After a trip to Frisco Texas for a doctors visit today, Momo and me stopped off at a local Fort Worth Mexican restaurant for an early supper before taking the cattle trail back to Granbury.

Seated, beers in hand, decompressing from two hours of hell on earth Dallas traffic, our Senorita waitress stopped by to drop a bowl of chips and salsa at our table; the usual fare for Tex-Mex food.

Over the years I have told my readers that my social filters have left on the last train to Clarksville, so I’m apt to blurt out any number of insults to no one in particular. The damn music was so loud I couldn’t understand a word the young miss was saying.

“Miss, can you turn down the music, or maybe give me a tablet and a pen so I can write out my order?” I say.

She was well indoctrinated. “Sir, the music is here to add to the ambiance and to make the food more tasty. We want our customers to think they are in old Mexico enjoying a meal while gazing at the Pacific ocean or the Gulf of America.”

Momo is giving me that ” you had better not say it” look, but I did anyway.

In my best old man I mean business voice I say, ” lookey here, Senorita, your food ain’t that good, and the music sucks, I can’t speak Spanish so why do you think I can understand a word that girl is singing? As far as ambiance, I’m looking out the window at the traffic whizzing by on Hulen Street and there is not a palm tree or a beach, or a dude leading a burro with a margarita machine strapped to its back. It’s Fort Worth Texas, not Cancun.”

Thoroughly insulted, she turns and stomps away. A few minuets later, Dire Straits is playing Money For Nothing. I notice all the folks our age are tapping their feet and digging the music. A few words of wisdom: music doesn’t make the food taste better.

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Caught by a Girl Scout: A Cookie Sales Encounter At The Walmart


Walking into Walmart this morning to pick up my meds, I was accosted, not by a panhandler or some poor schmuck with a sob story, but by a cute eight-year-old girl selling Girl Scout cookies. She wouldn’t take no for an answer and “had” all the answers. This little waif, hands on her hips and a defiant gleam in her eye, actually blocked my entrance into the Walmart. Standing in front of me like a little David about to punch Goliath, she meant business. I couldn’t bump her out of the way, so I was forced to engage her. It was all a grand scheme. Standing behind a table stacked with boxes of cookies were four Mama Bears, arms crossed, foot tapping, just waiting for me to decline. They all had that ” Just try to get out of this one” look on their face.

” I don’t have any money,” I pleaded.

” We take credit and debit cards,” she chirps. When did this start? Does every kid have a credit card machine in their backpack?

” I’m diabetic and could have a seizure,” I add.

“No problem mister, we have sugar and gluten-free,” she sneers.

I’m trapped. Twenty adults are staring at me as if I am a criminal. I hand her my Visa card, and she rings up five boxes of cookies and a twenty percent tip to boot. I take my cookies and walk to my car, fearing they will grab me again on the way out. I’ll be having cookies for supper.

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End Times in Texas: Snow Chaos at H-E-B


Backyard Bird Cafe at Casa de Strawn

According to the news gals on TV, the end of the world is upon Texas: snow is coming on Thursday and Friday, maybe a foot or more of the lovely puffy winter blanket. The problem is that the folks in this part of Texas don’t know anything about snow or how to deal with it. Schools are closing, businesses are having “End of Times” sales and liquor stores are running out of stock. This is as serious as the chicken flu.

Like every other fool in town, I went to the H-E-B for a few supplies: pork rinds, wine, beer, Cheeto’s, Wolf Brand Chili, A2 milk, and Ovaltine. I live in a hilly area, and if Momo and I get snowed or iced in, we cannot get out. Exceptions would be made for the hospital or the liquor store for hootch supplies.

I walked into an “End Times” scenario. The H-E-B, that pure Texas grocer, was in full pandemonium mode. The local police were arresting a mother for stealing food from an old woman’s shopping cart, her two young baby childs holding onto their mother’s legs as she was dragged out of the store. The store manager tased an old guy for ramming other shoppers with the store’s personal scooter.

Women were fighting, pulling hair, punching, kicking, and biting each other over toilet paper. Children ran wild down the aisles, grabbing cookies and any sugary treat. One kid stood atop the frozen food kiosk, throwing Red Baron pizzas at the snarling crowd below. It was like a scene from The Walking Dead.

I ran into my old pal Mooch. He had a garbage bag full of Pork Rinds and five cases of Pabst Beer, enough to see him through the apocalypse.

I found what I needed and went to the cashier; she said,

“take it, no charge, the machines have cratered.”

Arriving home, I found Momo cleaning our pistols and checking our ammo supply. She’s a crack shot, so I pity the fool who comes onto our property with intentions to steal. She’s excited about the Snowmeggdon and wants to make snow angels in our backyard. I told her the only thing we could make would be old people’s angels when we fall down and can’t get up and have to crawl back to the patio.

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Reflecting on the Luanne Platter at Luby’s…It’s A Texas Thing, Ya’ll


Miss Luanne Platter

Maureen and I visited Luby’s Cafeteria last week for lunch. The smell of the food brought back memories from my childhood.

Back in the 1950s, in Fort Worth, there were Wyatt’s and Luby’s cafeterias. It was always a hard choice for the family. Luby’s had the best deserts, while Wyatt’s always served larger portions. My Dad usually chose Wyatt’s—more bang for the buck. It was the Eisenhower years, and things were tight. That’s back when he was still a Democrat. I was just a hungry kid.

We took our place in line, trays aligned on the metal rail. I scanned the extra-large menu board for my favorite dish but couldn’t find it. I panicked. The platter I came for and have always ordered for decades is “The Luanne Platter,” and they damn well better have it. My blood sugar was low, and I could feel a rant coming on. Maureen rubbed a few drops of “Peace of Mind” lotion under my nose to calm me. Then, in the lower corner of the board, I spotted it. ” The Luann Platter, half portions with a roll – $8.99.” What the hell! It used to be $4.99 with a roll, a drink, and a slice of pie? Retired folk can’t afford those prices.

I approached the smiling lady server and, using my best old man-controlled voice, said,

” I’m not paying $8.99 for a half portion that was $4.99 with a piece of pie the last time I ate at Luby’s,” and I slammed my fist on my tray for effect.

Still smiling, she replied,

” Well,, sir, then you can choose the children’s plate if you are over 65 and/or acting like a child, as of which you appear to be. You have a choice of chicken strips, a hot dog, or spaghetti with 2% milk and a fruit cup. That will set you back $4.99 plus tax. And by the way, The Luanne Platter has been $8.99 since 2001.”

Oh man, the little Pop-Tart was really messing with me now. Her smile had turned to a slight sneer, and her eyes got beady. I leaned over the glass barrier.

” Do you know who Luann Platter is, young lady?” I demanded.

” No, sir. Was she a famous cook or employee of the month or something?” she said. Good Lord, this girl is clueless.

By this point, two other line servers had flanked the young miss in case I went postal. I faced them and, with conviction, said,

” Luanne Platter is the most famous character on the television show, ” King of the Hill.” An animated series set in Garland, Texas, and this dish you serve is named for her. Don’t you know who Hank, Bobby, and Peggy Hill are?”

The three servers’ young faces showed social ignorance. It was useless to explain. I collected my platter, and we proceeded to the checkout.

We sat in our booth, eating our lunch in silence. The food wasn’t as good as it used to be. The good old days are gone for good. My turnip greens were Kale, the most evil weed ever cooked. Maureen’s chicken was rubber faux, and my corn muffin was doughy and awful. We can scratch this one off of our list.

Leaving the cafeteria, a fortyish blond woman in the Luby’s uniform held the door open for us. In a girlish voice, she said,

” Ya’ll come back now.” I noticed her name tag read “Luanne.”

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Growing Up With Mexican Food in 1950s Fort Worth,Texas..My First Visit To Trashy Juanita’s



Childhood memories are like teeth; we all have good and rotten ones. If you grew up in Texas in the 1950s, you will identify with some of mine, or maybe not.

I was nine years old before I dined in a Mexican restaurant. I knew they existed because my father and mother enjoyed them, bringing home little mints and matchbooks touting the restaurant’s name. I got the mints, and my parents put the matchbooks in a jar in the kitchen. I dreamed that one day, I might visit one.

In Texas, Mexican food is part of life. It’s one of the major food groups; a boy cannot grow into a man of substance without it. Not having real Mexican food at that young age affected my evolution into a healthy young specimen. I harbored a nervous tick, stuttered sometimes, and had one leg shorter than the other. All those maladies were cured once I ate the real stuff. The medicinal qualities of Mexican food are exceptional.

For many years, I had eaten tacos at my cousin’s house, believing them to be authentic Mexican food. Sadly, they were nowhere near the real deal. Several times over the summer, my cousin Jok’s mother, Berel, would cook tacos and invite the families for a feast. Cold Beer and tongue-scorching Tacos. Pure Texas.

Berel would stand at her massive gas range, a large pot of ground beef, and a cauldron of boiling Crisco, heating the room to cooking temperature. She would drop a tortilla stuffed with meat into the witch’s cauldron, pull it out, and toss it to the pack of wild African dogs sitting around her kitchen table. The dogs, of course, were my cousins and me. My poor mother would leave the room. She could not bear to see her son eat like a feral child: growling, biting, snarling as we consumed the tacos like they were a cooked Wildebeest. That is what I consider Mexican food and proper behavior when consuming it.

Driving Northwest of downtown Fort Worth on Jacksboro Highway, right before you come to the first honkey tonk, you would find “Trashy Juanita’s” Mexican restaurant. Legendary for its tacos, frijoles, and cold Pearl Beer. It was also legendary for things my father would not mention until I was older. Gambling, shooting dice, and generally questionable behavior were part of the after-hours entertainment. It wasn’t on Jacksboro Highway for the view.

The owner of Juanita Batista, Carlita Rosanna Esposito, was not a trashy woman but a middle-aged Latin beauty with a bawdy laugh and sharp wit. The restaurant’s front yard adornments earned the name. Offended at first, she finally accepted her crown and wore it proudly.

Two rust-eaten pick-up trucks, one painted blue and the other yellow, sat abandoned in the front yard behind a cyclone fence. Pots of flowers decorated the fenders while the beds overflowed with vines and small flowering trees. Fifty or more chickens strutted and pecked around the yard, giving the place a barnyard atmosphere. Some saw a work of art, while others called it a junkyard that happened to serve great food.
In an interview in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Juanita claimed to be related to General Santa Anna, Pancho Villa, and the Cisco Kid, making her royalty in Mexico. The people of Fort Worth loved her, and she was considered a local character of some importance. She often dined with Ben Hogan and the Leonard brothers at Colonial Country Club.

Trashy Juanita’s was my first introduction to authentic Mexican food and all that comes with it.

My father sold one of his many fiddles to a buddy, and with the profit, he took the whole family to dine at Trashy Juanita’s on the Fourth of July, 1958.

Juanita had gone “whole hog” on this holiday. American flags hung from the front porch and draped the cyclone fence. Two small children sat in the front yard shooting bottle rockets at the cars driving on Jacksboro Highway, and the chickens were wrapped in red-white-and-blue crepe paper streamers. Very patriotic and also very redneck Texas.

A jovial Juanita escorted us to a large table beside the kitchen doorway. A waiter delivered tortillas, chips, salsa, and two Pearl beers for my father and grandfather along with large, frosty glasses of sweet iced tea for the rest of us. There was no menu; it was Tacos or nothing at all.

The unfamiliar aroma of exotic food floated on a misty cloud from the kitchen, filling my young nostrils and activating my developing saliva glands. A torrent of spit dripped from my mouth onto the front of my new sear-sucker shirt. My mother cleaned me up and wrapped a napkin around my neck. I was ready: I had my eating clothes on.
We decided the family would dine on a medley of beef and chicken Tacos, frijoles and rice, and guacamole ala Juanita. The waiter rushed our order to the kitchen.

The evening was turning out great. My father was telling jokes, the cold beer flowed, and a waiter walked past our table into the kitchen. Under each arm was one of the patriotically wrapped chickens from the front yard. My grandfather must have forgotten that two young children were at the table and remarked, “There goes our Tacos, can’t get any fresher than that.”

His remark went unnoticed until I asked my father, ” Dad, are we going to eat the pet chickens from the front yard?” He didn’t offer an answer.
I got a big lump in my throat, and my eyes got misty. My sister whimpered and cried like a baby, and my grandmother, seeing her grandchildren in such distress, shed tears in support. Mother gave the two adult men the worst evil eye ever. The mood at the table went from happy to crappy in a minute or less. So much for a joyous family celebration. We might as well be eating Old Yeller for supper.

There was a ruckus in the kitchen, yelling, pots and pans clashing, and the two chickens, still wearing their streamers, half-flew, and half-ran through the dining room and out the front door. The cook was right behind them but tripped over a man’s foot, knocking himself out as he hit the floor.

Standing in the middle of the dining room, Juanita announced that there would only be beef Tacos tonight. The two doomed birds had escaped the pan, and my sister and I were happy again. My father breathed a sigh of relief that the night was saved, and my grandfather bent down and polished the new scuff on his size 10 wingtip.