Talking, that is. See, I told you I liked bad puns.
So here we are. It’s a crisp, bright Tuesday morning here in sunny Southern California and I can’t seem to sit still. Between pacing the tiles of the cold kitchen and staring out the window, watching the wind tousle the trees, I am unsure of where this day will lead me. One thing is certain though; There is work to be done – books that need their pages turned, songs that beg to be heard, and thoughts that simply cannot pen themselves. An endless torrent of uncompleted ideas, pending projects, and unvoiced opinions swirl their way through my mind like soggy clothes in the middle of a lengthy wash cycle. I know what I must do.
Tuesdays are for taco-ing (talking).
But why tacos? The answer is simple. Tacos are the America of food. For decades, all those who entered The United States through Ellis Island in New York were greeted by a brilliant, shining Lady Liberty, on whose pedestal these welcoming, all-embracing words are inscribed:
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
The noble taco is just as loving. That limp, rejected cilantro? Put ‘er here. The cold, greasy meat? Slap it on me. Those crushed, bleeding tomato chunks? I’ll take that too. The taco takes all willingly, and in its tortilla it accepts and nurtures anything and everything you can think to wrap in its steamy embrace.
So that’s what Tuesdays are for. Tacos and talking. Every thought, every idea, all the whirlwind emotions and notions that have no place anywhere else come here to be released, reinvented, or simply recited. It could be anything, because on Taco Tuesday, anything goes.