Today, I did something for myself that I’ve never done before. Something so unabashedly decadent, so hedonistic, I would almost feel dirty if I didn’t have such a big, fat, satisfied smile on my face.

I made tacos. Just for me.

Who does that? And if your hand is raised, why are you not teaching a Master Class in Self-Indulgence, and also, where do I sign up?

I know, I know, Mexican folks are twisting up one side of their mouths, like, “You call that an accomplishment?” Si, si, mis amigos. For Mexicans, making tacos is about as exotic as making a ham sammich is for the rest of us. But for me, making tacos is a Major Event. Tacos are for special occasions—birthdays, celebrations, special guests. Sure, I can make lasagna and paella and even moussaka that would make a gourmet chef weep, but those are nothing compared to making tacos. Making tacos is an event. A magical culinary ritual. There aren’t recipes to follow — tacos must emerge from the soul.

Even my grown and grumpy kids, who harbor considerable disdain and ridicule for a great many things I do, will sit up and take notice if I say “I’m making tacos.” They might even come visit me for that. That’s because tacos are little miracle workers dressed up in picante sauce. In a fight with your spouse? Make tacos. Have a shitty day at work? Nothing tacos can’t handle. Can’t fit in your favorite jeans? Screw it. Just have some more tacos and embrace your yoga pants. It’s sooo worth it. And, you can have even more tacos.

They say money solves everything, but tacos can make the “everything” seem bearable until the money comes in. Tacos will hold your hand when life is kicking you in the teeth.

“Hold on,” say tacos, “Immerse yourself in our crunchy, greasy goodness, and just forget about that crap for awhile. Come be with us. It’s all bueno.”

Yes, tacos can do miracles and turn frowns upside down, but their magic isn’t to be squandered. You can’t just go around making tacos any old time. I’ve heard of people having Taco Tuesday, but that means they go out and buy them, or go to a restaurant, right? And, and if they’re making them at home, can I puleeeeeez move in with you? At least on Tuesdays?

I suppose my mental block about committing to making tacos is the tortilla frying process. It unnerves me on so many levels. For starters, I never ever fry anything. Fried food is a very rare treat in this house because 1) it’s not healthy and makes you need bigger yoga pants and 2) it makes a huge mess and 3) I don’t know what to do with the used oil other than to cover the pan with aluminum foil and stare at it on the stove for the next two weeks, until I work up the courage to dump it into the bin on garbage day.

And, it’s not just that you have to fry the shells in your vintage old cast-iron pan, it’s how you must do it: fry each tortilla one at a time, to just the exact crispy perfection for quickly flipping them in half with a spatula to make that V-shape to hold all that tasty taco-y goodness. And, the pressure is on, because you must do it quickly. Fry-Flip-Repeat, quick quick quick so the oil doesn’t overheat, burst into flame and turn the house into cinders, but also so all the finished shells don’t get cold.

Not that I wouldn’t still eat them cold.

Do they make yoga pants in a size 89?

Making tacos is on par with making baklava, which I have also perfected, but even baklava doesn’t generate the pressure. Even though the process is laborious, when you make baklava, you just resign yourself to spending the next four hours carefully brushing ten thousand flimsy fragile layers of phyllo dough while sipping a nice chardonnay. No pressure, just effort. Tacos are just the opposite. It’s all about the pressure, man. If I make tacos—it’s a Big Fucking Deal. I don’t make them for just anybody. If I make you tacos, consider yourself gloriously loved. And, that realization right there is what made me pump the brakes on my self-denial and consider that I actually could make myself tacos. I could! As many as I wanted. All for meeeee!

The situation was this: I really, really wanted tacos. But my kids are grown and living too far away to bribe them home in time for dinner. My husband is on the East Coast visiting his family. I’ve been submerged in book #3 for the last six weeks as we enter the home stretch toward the submission deadline, and my brain is becoming squeezed out. My butt has been planted in a chair for so many months writing this book, I won’t even need more tacos to graduate to bigger yoga pants. I thought about inviting people over for tacos, but that might require not wearing yoga pants, and well, two years of pandemic, and not wearing yoga pants sounds as risky as not wearing a mask at WalMart. And also, if I invited people over, I’d have to dust.

So, why did I really, really want tacos, you ask? Because I suddenly realized that the first two chapters of this book needed to be gutted and morphed into one chapter, setting me on a track of ripping and replacing, cutting and pasting, deleting and rewriting, just when I wanted to be writing new material, not reworking stuff I thought I’d finished.

Perfectionism. It’s not for pussies.

I’d set myself up for some real misery. So, I told myself if I managed to do it, I could have tacos. Not just any tacos. My tacos. Tacos so good, they can silence a snippy, sarcastic teenager with one bite. So, I sat down and gutted and cutted, and it looked like tacos were in my immediate future after all.

“But wait,” wailed the committee in my head, “You can’t just make tacos for yourself! That would be outrageous! You only make tacos for special people!”

And finally, oh finally, my brain actually processed what I’ve been telling myself my whole life: Tacos are only for special people? Am I not a special people too?

And there and then, despite the fact that it took me nearly seven decades to figure it out, I decided that I am just as special as everyone else, and I can have tacos too! And also: Not ONE of the people I’ve made tacos for has ever made tacos for me.

Well, that rips it.

There’s another thing it’s taken me nearly seven decades to figure out—if you really want something, you’re entirely more likely to get it if you make it happen rather than sitting around hoping someone else will get the hint.

Hint, hint, Me: Make yourself some damn tacos.

So I did. I chopped all the veggies and grated the cheese, simmered the ground meat in tomato juice and cumin and chili powder, and fried up even more shells than I needed just to show myself I didn’t have to ration them either. Or share them. These are MY tacos. And whatever’s leftover, I can eat for breakfast. Yes, tacos for breakfast. There’s some next-level hedonism.

All the prep and frying done, I assembled my colorful little beauties on the plate, plopped on sour cream and picante sauce, and enjoyed the ever-lovin’ fuck outta those tacos. And I wasn’t delicate about it either. I chomped them down wantonly, their savory, spicy juices splooshing my cheeks and squeezing out onto my hands and running down my wrists. I was an animal. It was glorious.

Yeah, I deserved tacos. Not just any tacos. My tacos. The best gringa tacos this side of Pico Rivera. Maybe, that was the most delicious thing of all: Realizing that I did deserve them.