It started innocently enough. I ordered Taqueria La Puerta, craving a simple breakfast burrito. What I received however, was a life altering behemoth wrapped in foil.
The burrito was massive. I’m talking “needs its own zip code” massive. I barely made it inside the house without toppling over from its sheer weight. Inside, the carnitas were piled high, juicy, tender, and seasoned like they were prepared by the culinary gods themselves. Cheese? Enough melted, gooey goodness to supply a small village for a week. And the tortillas? Soft, yet perfectly grilled to a golden brown perfection, wrapping this monstrosity like a snug, edible sleeping bag.
It was love at first bite.
But as I bit deeper into this culinary marvel, things started to spiral. The carnitas overflowed like lava from a breakfast volcano, cascading down my chin and shirt. I was powerless, enchanted, and covered in cheese. My focus on anything outside of the burrito diminished. Conversations became about its size, its flavor, its existence.
My wife? She tried to reason with me, begged me to share. But I was in too deep. The burrito had become an obsession. I ignored her pleas, defending my greasy prize like Gollum and his precious ring. The kids started referring to it as “the other sibling.”
Then, one fateful morning, I woke up to find my wife gone, leaving only a note: “It’s me or the burrito.”
But I still had a few bites left.
By the end of that fateful day, I had devoured the last of the burrito. As I sat there, full and alone, a wave of regret washed over me. My wife had left. She took the kids. I only had my burrito induced food coma for comfort.
Yet, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t do it all over again. That burrito was worth every ounce of joy and chaos it brought into my life. To my Wife and kids, if you're reading this, I'm
sorry, and I love you.
5 stars. Would highly recommend.
