Enchilada day

Doesn't that sound like a good day? We're making enchiladas seven different ways for a possible story, and it looks like I will be having a plain salad for dinner.

The smell in the kitchen brings back memories of my hopeless waitressing days in Albuquerque. I liked to hide out in the kitchen, where one of the cooks let me fry tortilla chips. He always called me "mujer," and I thought he was flirting with me until I looked up the word.

One day he said, "What are you?"
"What do you mean, 'What am I?'"
"Are you Mexican? White? Spanish?"
"I'm Italian."
"Oh," he nodded, getting back to his quesadilla. "You're half-white."