Man Eater: EconMan (Chapter Three, Part Two)

Shortly after my distasteful birthday dinner, EconMan gave date-planning another try.

“This place is dead,” I said as EconMan and I took our seats at Mojito’s, a new Cuban locale.

Though it was mid-afternoon, the posh restaurant was as bright and lively as a funeral parlor. The windows were obscured by heavy drapes in blood-toned colors and the massive dining room was empty. It was as though we’d been deserted on a culinary island.

“Good evening, folks,” a boyishly attractive waiter said when he approached our table. He rocked back and forth on his heels and put his hands on his hips. “Have you dined with us before?”

EconMan snickered; he hated when waiters asked that question.

“No, we haven’t,” I offered up politely.

“Let me explain how this works, then,” the waiter said. He crouched down beside me and propped a menu on my lap, then explained the difference between a la carte entrées and the unlimited Cuban barbeque.

“I want to try a bit of everything, don’t you?” I asked EconMan.

EconMan shrugged and scowled.

“Barbeque it is,” I said.

“I can’t believe it,” EconMan said after the waiter sauntered off.

“What?” I asked. “The price?”

Mojito’s was more extravagant than our usual date-night dinners, but for all-you-can-eat meat, it was worth it.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice,” EconMan said.

I held up my hands. What could be wrong already?

“The waiter was totally hitting on you!”

“He was being friendly.”

“He was looking at you, smiling, getting all cozy.”

“You’re insane. He was doing his job.”

EconMan shook his head. “He was hitting on you.”

The waiter returned and placed a penis-sized wooden peg in the middle of the table.

“When you’re ready for your meat,” the waiter said, gripping his woody. “Flip the green side up. When you want to stop, flip it to red.”

Brown-skinned servers paraded by with huge animal appendages on poles, slicing flanks of meat so fresh steam rolled around the edges of their knives.

I happily noshed; EconMan nibbled.

“Don’t you want some more?” I asked after I swallowed my fifth serving of red meat.

EconMan shook his head sullenly.

“The point of a place like this is to get stuffed,” I said. “You’re paying for it; take advantage.”

“If you eat when you’re not hungry,” he said as he dropped his napkin on the table, “how do you know when you’re full?”

EconMan patted his emaciated stomach. More and more, he looked like an albino Gumby to me.

“Food isn’t just for fuel,” I said. “It’s about enjoyment, too.”

“I’ve enjoyed. Now I’m ready to go.”

EconMan waved the waiter over.

“How was everything?” the waiter asked.

“Fantastic,” I said. I exaggerated my smile just to spite EconMan.

“I hope to see you again.” The waiter said. He placed the check on the table and spun around on his heel.

“See?” EconMan said as he took the tab. “He didn’t even look at me.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“You better believe I’m not leaving a tip,” EconMan slapped the leather folder on the table. “I don’t understand why eat out so much anyway.”

“Because it’s what couples do.”

Perhaps food was a pretext; what I really craved was EconMan’s undivided attention. Away from his cluttered apartment, where EconMan stacked projects-in-progress literally up to the ceiling, there was little distraction.

My motivation was also economic: I wanted to be worth the premium restaurant prices. Because money was EconMan’s obsession, I wanted him to prove with his wallet what he couldn’t with his words. Being treated to dinner made me feel more loved.

EconMan cut back on the extravagant meals out; soon we were stuck in a rut eating the same entrées at the same Mexican haunt every week.

“I want the taco salad—no crispy bowl—with chicken instead of beef,” EconMan told the waiter at El Loro. “And three tortilla shells on the side.”

The waiter raised an eyebrow.

“You know, tortilla shells,” EconMan said, folding an invisible taco between his hands.

“You don’t want crispy?” the waiter asked.

“No,” EconMan said in exasperation. “Flour tortilla shells.”

The waiter’s eyebrow didn’t drop.

“The white, round ones,” EconMan said.

The waiter nodded and walked away.

“You’d think he’d know what tortilla shells are,” EconMan sighed.

“They’re not called tortilla shells,” I hissed across the table. “They’re just tortillas.”

EconMan shot me a nasty glare and took a swig of his O’Doul’s.

“Why do you order salads in restaurants anyway?” I asked.

“Because that’s what I want to eat.”

“But it’s salad. You could make that at home. The point of going out is to eat something you wouldn’t make for yourself.”

“When I want a salad—or anything else—at home, I make it.”

“Since when have you made shrimp fajitas?” I asked, indicating my favorite dish on the menu.

“I haven’t made them because I don’t want to eat them.”

“Or because you don’t know how,” I said.

“So you’re saying I should order something I don’t want to eat?”

The debate was always the same: me, hedonist versus him, prude.

The waiter returned with two platters.

“That’s not my salad,” EconMan said, indicating a plate with several lumps of shredded lettuce, guacamole, sour cream, and beans.

“No, senor,” the waiter said, placing the plate beside me. “This for the senorita’s fajitas.”

“These are just the condiments,” I explained. The waiter set the other half of my order—a sizzling skillet of shrimp, peppers, and onions—on the table with an oven-mitted hand.

EconMan shook his head in wide-eyed disbelief.

“You eat more like a college frat guy than a cover girl,” he said.

I froze mid-fajita construction.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You treat eating like an event,” EconMan said.

“Well…yeah.”

“Eat to live,” he said as he dug into his saintly salad. “Not the other way around.”

Cheapskate Taco Salad

Ingredients

1 pound boneless skinless chicken breasts

1 envelope taco seasoning mix

2/3 cup water

1 bag romaine lettuce

1 tomato, diced

1 carrot, shredded

½ cup jalapeno cheddar cheese, shredded

2 large flour tortillas (if you want to be authentic)

6 small flour tortillas (if you want to be anal)

Sour cream, guacamole, and salsa (optional)

Directions

· Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees. Grease baking pan with cooking spray.

· Place chicken breasts in pan; bake 30 minutes or until chicken in thoroughly cooked and juices run clear.

· Remove chicken from oven and transfer to cutting board; slice into strips.

· In large skillet, dissolve taco seasoning in water over medium-high heat.

· Add chicken to skillet; simmer 5 minutes.

· Place large tortillas on baking sheet and cover with aluminum foil; heat in oven for 1 minute.

· Remove tortillas from baking sheet and roll aluminum foil into two balls. Top each ball with 1 tortilla, shaping it into a bowl.

· Bake tortilla bowls for 6 to 8 minutes, or until crisp and lightly browned.

· Remove from oven and cool on wire rack for 2 minutes.

· Fill tortilla bowls with romaine lettuce (if eating authentic-style) or arrange lettuce on plate (if eating smart-aleck-style) with small tortillas on the side.

· Top salads with tomatoes, cheese, and warm chicken.

· Add sour cream, guacamole, and/or salsa to taste.

· Eat and brag about how economical it is to make taco salads at home.

July 2005

Man Eater: EconMan (Chapter Three, Part One)

“Growing up, I saw that food made everyone happy.

Sure, there are a couple people in the world who don’t like to eat.

Those people are grouchy.”

--Rachel Ray

After my divorce, I was itching to get my “second first time” over with.

As soon as The Hot Tamale moved out of the house we’d built together, I sought out the most inappropriate, least-likely-to-last man I could find—in the form of a high school teacher. My high school teacher. Though we were now both adults, EconMan and I were far from equals. I was 23, he was almost 50. I was the doting mother of two infant daughters; he had a teenage son born out of wedlock that he “paid for” but rarely spent time with. I was a two-time homeowner while EconMan had been renting a run-down apartment for years. I was divorced; he was a lifelong bachelor. Hell, he’d never even lived with a woman. But coming off my disastrous marriage, I wasn’t looking for forever. EconMan, whom I later suspected was a nymphomaniac, was just what I needed to satisfy my appetite.

After charming the pants off him over pizza on our first date, we became a couple as close as peas in a pod. Three months into our relationship, my twenty-fourth birthday arrived—and with it, my sky-high expectations of a big surprise. It would be the first time EconMan had planned an evening out on the town for the two of us. But as the date approached, my excitement morphed into dread—what if EconMan bombed the birthday dinner?

“Is that what you’re wearing?” EconMan asked when he picked me up on The Big Night.

I glanced down at my boobs which weren’t big enough to hold up the shimmering silk dress I was wearing. Despite my creative safety-pinning, the v-neck hung lazily around my bust line.

“You’re showing too much skin,” EconMan said. “Don’t you have another skirt?”

“It’s not a skirt,” I spat back. (EconMan was constantly misnaming things; a trait I suspected was pre-Alzheimer.) “It’s a dress.”

“Dress, skirt, same difference. Can’t you change it?”

I stomped to my room like one of his angry adolescent students and put on a sweater set and floral skirt instead.

Though the birthday dinner was meant to be a surprise, as soon as we exited the freeway, I knew where we were going—and I didn’t like it.

Chanhassen Dinner Theater is a Minnesotan treat—if you’re a senior citizen in search of an entertaining afternoon with the grandkids. When I was introduced to the Chanhassen as a child, the combination of eating fancy fare while watching an upbeat musical was magical. For a girl like me who’d subsisted off pizza, fried chicken, and greasy Chinese eaten in front of the TV, the Chanhassen’s entrées, cloth napkins, and precise presentation seemed elegant.

In recent years, however, the theater’s food had turned from four-star to foul, on par with tasteless airplane fare.

“Surprise!” EconMan said when he parked his pistachio-hued Ford Explorer.

My fake smile atrophied from overuse.

EconMan hadn’t even sprung for a private table on the main floor; instead, we were seated in the Fireside Theater—which didn’t have a fireplace in sight—alongside a poorly lit, makeshift stage in the basement.

Two stale white rolls, bundled in a basket, awaited us on the table. A waiter so corny he belonged in a comedy club presented us with unimpressive iceberg lettuce salads drizzled with unnaturally orange dressing. The entrées were no better: an overcooked chicken breast stuffed with wild rice for EconMan and broiled walleye with a limp vegetable medley for me.

EconMan’s eyes scanned my face for a reaction to the big birthday surprise. I avoided his gaze and over-chewed my food.

“Dessert?” the waiter asked as he hurriedly cleared the table. “We’re only ten minutes from curtain time.”

I turned expectantly toward my boyfriend; this was when the wait staff was supposed to march out serenading me with a triple-layer chocolate cake and firecracker candles.

Surely EconMan had planned something spectacular.

“I’ll pass,” EconMan said. “But I’m sure Erica wants something.”

“Turtle cheesecake, please,” I sighed.

The waiter returned with a miniscule wedge of cheesecake drowning in caramel and rancid-tasting walnuts.

It was quite possibly the worst meal of my life.

Birthday Girls Don’t Get Fat Cheesecake

Ingredients

1 Oreo cookie crust

1 cup fat-free caramel syrup, divided

2 (8 ounce) packages fat-free cream cheese

½ cup egg substitute

2 cups Splenda

½ cup pecan pieces

½ cup chocolate chips

Directions

· Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

· Pour ½ cup caramel syrup into bottom of crust; refrigerate 10 minutes or until firm.

· Beat cream cheese, egg substitute, and Splenda on high with electric mixer until creamy.

· Pour cream cheese mixture into crust.

· Bake at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes; cool.

· Pour remaining ½ cup caramel on top of cheesecake.

· Sprinkle with pecans and chocolate chips.

· Chill at least 3 hours or overnight until firm.

· Weight gain is no excuse not to celebrate the birthday girl!

June 2005

Man Eater: The Hot Tamale (Chapter Two, Part Two)

In the culinary department, The Hot Tamale was easy to please; his brother even joked that The Hot Tamale would eat anything “as long as it’s topped with melted cheese.” Over the years, I satisfied my hubby’s appetite with 10-minute meals: Tuna Helper, Pasta Pronto, and Lean Cuisines. If it wasn’t a one-dish dinner or sold in bulk at Sam’s, I wasn’t interested. The kitchen was the last place I wanted to spend my free time. When asked if I cooked, I said yes, though technically I microwaved, warmed up, or brought to a boil.

The Hot Tamale didn’t have a clue about cooking; once, he called me at work because he didn’t know how to turn on the oven. His culinary skills didn’t surpass his signature dish: queso fundido (a.k.a. microwaving cheese until it bubbled into a crispy brown disc.)

The Hot Tamale didn’t mind our limited menu, except when it came to one dish: mole.

“Riquisimo, Gordita!” my husband raved as he swallowed his first bite of mole-soaked chicken. We were seated at his parents’ dining room table enjoying a homemade meal for his birthday.

“It’s your favorite, isn’t it?” The Hot Tamale’s mother asked, patting my husband’s hand.

The Hot Tamale nodded and hmmed through a mouthful of brown marinade.

Mole was a complicated entrée; its creation requiring an unlikely combo of chocolate, chilies, spices and nuts, all ground together in a thin, glossy sauce. An acquired taste, the sweet-and-spicy sauce was served over pan-roasted chicken or pork. Of all the recipes my hubby could’ve loved, mole was the only one I would’ve rather have spit out than savor. It was quite possibly the only incarnation of chocolate I refused to eat.

The Hot Tamale’s father turned to me. “Whenever you want,” he said as he rolled a tortilla between his fingers, “your mother-in-law will give you cooking lessons!”

My mother-in-law, used to her husband offering up favors on her behalf, nodded effusely.

“Err…uh…thanks,” I mumbled.

“Whenever you want!” my father-in-law repeated. “Maybe a Saturday morning…” He held up his fork as though suddenly struck with genius. “Next Saturday morning!”

I forced a fake smile onto my face; the only thing I wanted to make on Saturday mornings was whoopee. If I was going to devote a weekend to learning how to cook, it wouldn’t be in the name of a dish I didn’t even like. Besides, why would I try to top my mother-in-law in the kitchen? What was I? Loca?

“Erica doesn’t really like this kind of food,” The Hot Tamale said sheepishly.

My father-in-law stopped shoveling bright orange rice into his mouth and grunted. “What kind of food?”

“Mexican food,” I said.

My father-in-law scowled.

Just in case I hadn’t firmly stuck my foot in my mouth, I added, “What I mean is: I don’t like authentic Mexican food.”

Because I couldn’t tolerate hot and spicy fare, every Mexican dish I’d tried—the chile rellenos, the nopales, the tamales—was tasteless without the trademark Tabasco kick. I adored Tex-Mex, however, and happily threw back platters of cheese enchiladas from Don Pablo’s or chips and guacamole by the bucket.

But my gringa taste buds couldn’t stand even a drop of mole.

“Erica wouldn’t be cooking mole for herself,” my father-in-law said, ripping a tortilla violently in half. (Whenever we went head-to-head, he spoke of me in third person as though I suddenly didn’t understand Spanish.) “She’d be cooking for The Hot Tamale. The best thing a woman can do for her husband is to have a hot, homemade meal waiting on the table for him after work.”

“And what about when the wife comes home from work?” I ventured.

My father-in-law licked at a spot of hot sauce embedded in the corner of his mouth. “The wife always comes home before the husband,” he said. “Always.”

Apparently the meaning of "ladies first" had been lost in translation.

“You’re probably right, Pa.” The Hot Tamale said in his trademark placating statement.

What my father-in-law didn’t know was that when the weather was nice, The Hot Tamale did make dinner—though his recipes were as uncomplicated as mine. He’d buy a pound of thinly-sliced steak from the Me Gusta deli, marinate it overnight in beer and lime juice, and BBQ it for ten minutes on our Fiesta! brand grill. Bistec was the only food The Hot Tamale ever made for me—and one of the few meals we ate that wasn’t topped with cheese.

Neither The Hot Tamale nor I learned how to cook and by our six-year anniversary, our marriage went rancid.

The Mole I Never Made

Ingredients

4 frozen boneless, skinless chicken breasts

¼ cup flour

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 tablespoon chili powder

1 can chicken broth

½ envelope chili mix

1/8 teaspoon garlic salt

½ (1 ounce) block bittersweet chocolate

Directions

· Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees. Grease baking pan with cooking spray.

· Place chicken breasts in pan; bake 30 minutes or until chicken in thoroughly cooked and juices run clear.

· While chicken is baking, heat oil in large skillet; add flour and chili powder and cook until oil is absorbed, about 1 minute.

· Add chicken broth, chili mix, garlic salt, and chocolate.

· Simmer 10 minutes, stirring frequently. Remove from heat and allow to thicken.

· Remove chicken from oven and transfer to serving platter.

· Pour mole over chicken.

· Serve, being careful to contain gag reflex.

· Disregard guests’ reactions to meal; your mole will never be as good as your mother-in-law’s.

February 2005

* * *

I’m cooking more than I can—or should—eat alone. In self-defense, I invent a new family tradition: The Guinea Pig Buffet. Every Sunday, my father, mother, step-dad Jay and brother Shane arrive on my doorstep with empty bellies to taste-test my latest creations.

“What is that?” my step-father, Jay, asks. He leans over my shoulder and squints at the saucepan on the stove.

“It’s mole,” I say, giving the goo a few stirs.

“In English, please.”

“Chocolate and cayenne pepper and chili powder.”

“And you eat it?” he asks, aghast.

“Yup.”

“Humph. Doesn’t sound so great.”

I’ve been thinking the same thing—these ingredients can’t possibly taste good together. I consider whipping up an alternate entrée in case the mole is unpalatable, but I’m out of time. I sneak a spoon lick and am surprised—the soupy brown marinade is delicious! I pour the mole over fresh baked chicken breasts amidst my family’s oohs and ahhs.

My family gobbles the entrée up. Though Jay is my fiercest critic, he’s also the most reliable plate cleaner. There isn’t a drop of the spicy-sweet creation left.

Seeing how popular my Mexican feast was, I wonder if my father-in-law was wiser than I gave him credit for—had I made the mole way-back-when, would I have saved my marriage?

Maybe not...because had I stayed married, it’s very possible I would have run into Puck. The Hot Tamale and Puck are alums of the same chiropractic college, after all. As The Hot Tamale’s main squeeze, I attended my share of chiropractic functions. We might’ve even met before but I was so blinded by my infatuation for The Hot Tamale that I didn’t even notice Puck. He would’ve been just another Canadian chiropractor. Another salt-or-pepper shaker on the table at Pepito’s.

The ring of the phone shakes me from my ponderings—it’s The Hot Tamale, calling to arrange the weekend kid-exchange schedule. Suddenly I feel brave—blame it on the mole—and just before we hang up, I say, “Hey, do you know someone named Puck?”

“The name sounds familiar…”

“He’s a chiropractor.”

“Oh, yeah! Canadian, right? Is he treating you?”

“Well, umm, we sort of dated this summer…”

The line is dead silent.

“Are you still there?” I ask.

“Yeah…”

“And I wanted to know how well you knew him, ‘cause I want to get back together with him. He’s not married, is he?”

“I only played soccer with the guy. I don’t know about his personal life,” my ex says.

“Did you ever get the feeling that he was an alcoholic? Or a drug addict?”

“Most chiropractors don’t use drugs, but…”

“But what?” I ask, my heart reaching a rabbit’s pace. I feel like I’m on the brink of solving the Puck mystery!

“All I can say is…be careful.”

“What does that mean?”

“Can you hold on a minute?” The Hot Tamale says suddenly, clicking over to another line. When he clicks back, he says, “I’ll give you the details later.”

The dial tone drones in my ear. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think The Hot Tamale and Puck are in cahoots to make me crazy!

August 2009

Man Eater: The Hot Tamale (Chapter Two, Part One)

"A little chocolate is like a love affair--an occasional sweet release that lightens the spirit. A lot of chocolate is like marriage--it seems so good at first but before you know it you've got chunky hips and a waddle-walk." -- Linda Solegato

Valentine’s Day of my sixteenth year marked my initiation into the wide world of carnality.

“Can I give you a kiss?”

I turned to The Hot Tamale seated next to me. His hands rested loosely on the steering wheel of his Nissan. A big, gap-toothed smile spread across his coffee-complexioned face.

“You don’t have to ask,” I said and lunged across the stick shift.

Our lips met, our tongues tangled, and when we separated, he flashed that adorably defective smile again.

“That was nice,” he said, reaching one arm behind my seat. “But this is what I meant.”

The Hot Tamale placed a giant Hershey’s kiss in my lap.

It doesn’t take much to win me over—a cute guy and carbohydrates!—and by this, our second date, I was head over heels for The Hot Tamale.

We’d met two weeks prior at the photo shop where I worked part-time. It was a dull Friday night and I was about to take my dinner break when the store’s doorbell dinged.

“I’ll get it,” I moaned to a co-worker. (A cinnamon raisin bagel oozing peanut butter was calling my name.) “But this is my last customer.”

I stepped up to the register where a Hispanic hottie was leaning over the counter. His jet-black hair was slicked back with too much gel (a look I’d later name “The Porcupine”) and he was wearing a brown bomber jacket.

“Hablas espanol?” I asked.

The Hot Tamale’s head jerked back in surprise.

“Claro que si,” he said. Of course.

In our brief bilingual chat, I learned that The Hot Tamale was a few months shy of graduating from the nearby Chiropractic college and needed photos for his work Visa.

The Hot Tamale assumed the standard immigration pose, the Polaroid’s flash popped and the camera spit out twin images of his poker face. The Hot Tamale complimented me on my Spanish. I giggled. We clicked. When I packaged the prints, I slipped my phone number inside the envelope.

The Hot Tamale called a week later and we met for coffee at the bohemian Loring Café. For our second date, Valentine’s Day, we dined at Pepito’s, a culinary nod to both our cultures. The quaint restaurant was tucked away in my native South Minneapolis and served the South-of-the-Border fare I assumed The Hot Tamale missed.

“So,” The Hot Tamale said, picking up the salt shaker. “This is Jason, the Canadian. And this,” he pulled the pepper grinder toward him, “is Gerard, the Mexican orphan adopted by the German family.”

“Uh-huh…” I nodded unconvincingly.

The Hot Tamale shook his head; even with the props, I couldn’t keep track of the international cast of cohorts he’d made during his four years of bone-cracking school.

The waiter interrupted our United Nations salt-and-pepper shaker summit.

“That’s not a quesadilla!” The Hot Tamale said as a round metal tray slid across the table toward me. I looked down at the crisp tortilla covered in sizzling cheese, sliced jalapenos, and Technicolor peppers. Though I adored Pepito’s ambiance, the menu left little wiggle room for the vegetarian palette and I usually ordered appetizers. “That’s a pizza trying to pass as aquesadilla!”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” I said.

“No thanks,” he said as the waiter placed a long plate of milanesa before my new man. “I’ll stick with my meat.”

I couldn’t wait for The Hot Tamale to stick me with his meat; so far, he’d barely pecked me on the cheek. I was so hot for him, my thighs were welded together with sweat. On this Valentine’s Day, my gift to The Hot Tamale would be my virginity.

“I brought some CD’s,” I said, retrieving Fionna Apple and The Cranberries from my purse. “Wanna listen to them?”

“My car only has a tape player.”

I pouted.

“But we could listen to them back at my place,” The Hot Tamale said with a twinkle in his toffee-colored eyes.

After the infamous first kiss, The Hot Tamale drove us back to the apartment he shared with his brother and best friend. The silence as we ascended the stairs to the second floor was sweet and expectant.

“I have to tell you something,” I said as I whipped off my sweater a few minutes later. “I’m a virgin.”

The Hot Tamale unbuckled his belt and his pants crumpled to the floor.

“Me, too,” he said.

“Liar,” I said. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

The Hot Tamale blushed. “No, I’m not. I don’t know what I’m doing, either.”

I lay in wait on the living room floor, studying his sturdy, smooth body as he retrieved a Trojan from his desk drawer. How was it that such an attractive, intelligent, 23-year-old man had never had sex before?

“It’s not that I haven’t wanted to,” The Hot Tamale mind-reader said over his shoulder. “It’s that, until you, I hadn’t met anyone who was worth it.”

Candlelight flickered across The Hot Tamale’s face as he lowered himself on top of me.

“Is this the right place?” he asked, pressing his pelvis against mine.

“How should I know?” I asked. All I could feel was pressure, heat, and the slightest sensation of tearing between my legs.

Though we were both novices, we figured out the logistics. Afterward, we curled up on The Hot Tamale’s twin-sized bed.

“Do you want to stay the night?” he asked as I nuzzled my head into his armpit.

“I have a curfew,” I sighed. I was only 16, after all.

“Coffee tomorrow morning?” he asked.

“I don’t drink coffee,” I said.

“Me, neither,” The Hot Tamale said. We looked at each other and giggled.

“How do you say bagels in Spanish?” I asked. I still had a hankering for my cinnamon raisin concoction.

“It’s really difficult,” The Hot Tamale said. “I don’t know if you can pronounce it.”

“Try me.”

The Hot Tamale took a deep breath and said slowly, “Bag-els.”

“Well, then,” I said. “Nos vemos manana para bagels.”

The next morning, as we nibbled fresh orbs of flour at Bruegger’s, I realized this wasn’t a one-night stand. While our bilingual love-making may have been slow, our commitment to one another came quickly. Overnight, we went from intimate strangers to exclusive couple.

After a year of hot-and-heavy dating, The Hot Tamale asked me to accompany him to an appointment.

“It’s about my Visa,” he said. “It expires in April.”

At an immigration law office on Summit Avenue, The Hot Tamale and I swung side to side in matching swivel chairs.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” a petite Asian attorney said as she shuffled The Hot Tamale’s documents across a polished conference table. “It’s nearly impossible to get a work Visa these days.”

“Couldn’t we just get married?” I asked, citing the movie “Green Card”, in which a French man wed a New Yorker for the sole purpose of immigration status.

The lawyer peered over her smart black glasses. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that,” she said and slapped The Hot Tamale’s file shut. “As is, I can’t help you with your case.”

“What if we had come in already engaged?” I asked. “Could you have helped us then?”

The attorney stood, her crisp burgundy suit lending an air of intimidation to her unimpressive stature.

“Understand: this is a hypothetical answer,” she said and leaned in closer to us. “Had you come in already married, The Hot Tamale’s application would be approved.”

The attorney extended her hand to The Hot Tamale, then me.

“Good luck,” she said.

The Hot Tamale and I married in March, a week before his Visa expired.

In the beginning, we were naïve enough to believe the marriage was just a front for the INS; neither of us knew that the road to citizenship would take as long as it did. The husband-and-wife roles grew on us and one thing led to another—by which I mean a custom-built house, a new car, a Cocker Spaniel, an infant daughter and another baby on the way. By the time he was an official American, The Hot Tamale and I had been together for five-and-a-half years.

Mexican Pizza Quesadilla

Ingredients

4 large flour tortillas

1 red onion, chopped

1 green bell pepper, chopped

½ cup corn

½ cup canned black beans

1 teaspoon cumin powder

1 teaspoon paprika

½ teaspoon red chili powder

1 cup Mexican blend cheese, shredded

Sour cream, guacamole, and/or salsa for dipping (optional).

Directions

· Heat oil in large saucepan.

· Sauté red onion 3 minutes.

· Add green pepper and corn; sauté an additional 5 minutes.

· Add black beans; stir well.

· Add cumin powder, paprika, and red chili powder. Mix well and remove from heat.

· Heat griddle on medium-low.

· Place one tortilla on griddle and top with half of vegetable and bean mixture.

· Sprinkle ½ cup cheese and cover with second tortilla.

· Warm quesadilla 2-3 minutes.

· Flip quesadilla carefully and cook other side until cheese is melted and tortillas are slightly crispy.

· Repeat with remaining vegetable and bean mixture and tortillas.

· Using pizza cutter, slice each quesadilla into four pieces.

· If desired, dip in sour cream, guacamole and/or salsa.

August 2003