(Previously, on Taco Tuesday.)
The baby eyeballs the boiling meat atop the stove and then gives me a furtive glance. She knows as much about large hunks of graying boiling pork as I do about the proper use of the word "furtive". She is a sneaky one, though. She's eating pretzels like the world's unfolding according to her plan. The boy sleeps on the couch. I check the pot. The rendered fat floats atop the khaki-colored water like a 6th grade Science Fair version of the Exxon Valdez disaster. (Yeah, it's khaki-colored. It's like Calda de La Gap.) Ice cubes form in the freezer. The tequila abides. Outside the dog barks at air. In about two more hours the water will have evaporated or been absorbed, the orange peels and the cinnamon stick will be removed, the meat will awaken from it's oily watery slumber like Gregor Samsa to be shredded and fried and find itself transformed, only instead of a giant mealworm it'll be tasty, tasty carnitas. I've yet to try mealworm so I don't judge; don't send me hatemail. For all I know mealworm tastes like pumpkin pie, but I'll never know 'cause it's Taco Tuesday.
