Until this summer, neither of us liked gazpacho.
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I won’t even venture to label these tacos.

Except, it seems I already have by calling them ‘bbq’. I didn’t even bbq these – I cooked them in a dutch oven on the stove. So shoot me.

I really don’t know what to call them though. ‘Cool’? Maybe ‘Good’?

They’re carnitas-like in texture – crispy, yet moist. Yet, the flavor is vinegary rather than pork-decadent.

They’re vinegary like North Carolina pulled pork. But, having never set foot in North Carolina or had what could be considered proper North Carolina bbq, I have no idea how these measure up. I also know I didn’t cook them accordingly.

I hadn’t the patience or the time to cook these low and slow. If I’d followed even the shortest of recipes, we would have been eating at 2 in the morning. Hardly desirable. Instead, I sought ways to speed the process. My pork needed to be cooked, yet tender. I didn’t want to mess with the grill (it’s too hot) or the oven (we’re living in the middle of Hell here, really). So I…
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I started crying at IKEA today.

Though I did spend 45 minutes in the curtain section, analyzing the many merits and disadvantages of velvet vs. tweed vs. linen, panels vs. tabs vs. grommets, translucent vs. opaque, navy vs. brown vs. ivory vs. orange vs. white, my tears were not due to exhaustion or sensory overload. At least I don’t think they were – by the end of it all, I may have been ready to cry at anything.

The real culprit was a simple exchange between mother and daughter. You know that silly little food court on the way out of IKEA? The one with the amazing cinnamon rolls and soft-serve ice cream that even the most extreme of the Cross-Fit fanatics can’t resist? Yeah. Well, the mom and the daughter took one sniff look at those ooey, gooey cinnamon rolls, looked at each other, grinned, and made a beeline for the counter.
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My cooking buddy called the other day with the greatest news ever.

“Did you get your mail today?” She asked.
– Yes…. (Where could this be going?)
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It’s probably the most divisive issue for food lovers – cilantro.

For cilantro haters, the answer to this question is of supreme importance. If you hate cilantro, you’re on their side. You have a sophisticated palate. You are a super taster (more on that later). You can join their elite club (no, really).

If you love cilantro? Well, there must be something wrong with you. Prepare to be judged. Apparently you know absolutely nothing about real food. I mean, you call yourself a foodie? And you like something that tastes like soap? C’mon…step aside for the elite foodies of the world – the cilantro haters who, channeling Julia Child, will pick it off and throw it on the floor.

It’s ridiculous.
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