Taco ‘bout taste

I’ve heard it said perfection is an illusion. And I subscribe to that belief, especially when it comes to relationships, parking spots and my ability to fold a fitted sheet. Well, apparently there’s one more thing it applies to. Finding the perfect taco in Los Angeles.

A fool’s errand? Maybe. But if there’s an impossible dream worth chasing, it’s one wrapped in a warm corn tortilla.

Here’s the thing: Los Angeles is a taco mecca. And its cool cousin Long Beach is no slouch either. The options are endless: street vendors, mom-and-pop shops, taco trucks with lines longer than the DMV.

Each taco has its own personality. Some spicy and unpredictable (like my high school girlfriend). Others rich and comforting (see previous joke). There are hard-shell and soft shell. Open and closed. Trying to choose a favorite is like trying to pick your favorite child, which, frankly is easier on some days than others.

I’ve tasted the smoky al pastor. I’ve savored shredded beef so tender it brought a tear to my eye, and a permanent stain to my shirt.

And the fish tacos? If loving them is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

But how can just one be THE taco? It feels wrong when they all bring something special to the table (see what I did there?).

In my search I realized something: every day in L.A. is Taco Tuesday. There’s no waiting for a specific day of the week—great tacos are available, at all hours, in all places. You can have a breakfast taco in the morning, a carnitas taco at lunch, and a late-night street taco after an evening of bad decisions.

And there lies the beauty of this City of Tacos. Just when you think you’ve found the one, another contender pops up, winking at you from the next food truck. Or calling your name from a modest taqueria tucked behind a laundromat.

I don’t want to spoil the end of the story for you, but I haven’t found the perfect taco. The search continues, and every bite is its own reward.

Viva la búsqueda. Long live the search.

De-Christmafied

Not so merry now, is it?

It's been twelve days since Christmas, and on the twelfth day my true love gave to me a house de-Christmafied. The wreaths are down, the ornaments have been boxed and put away until next year. And the tree has been kicked to the curb.

As I wrote about here a couple years ago, I've always had kind of a love/hate relationship with our Christmas tree. On one antler, I love the fun, hopeful and joyous spirit it brings to the house during the season.

On the other, I always see it taking the house down in flames.

I'm always sad to see the holidays end, but this time it was less of an ending and more an act of mercy. Our tree stopped drinking water about the third day we had it, and it was dry to the touch and slightly brown. Plus the needles had started to fall all over the place. And since Santa didn't bring me a new vacuum, I wasn't particularly excited about that development.

That's not our tree in the picture, but it may as well be. It's one of the many you'll see lining the curbs if you drive down my block today. All ghosts of Christmas past, they're waiting for the city trucks to come by tomorrow morning starting at 6:30 to pick them up.

There is of course still the matter of the lights that decorate the exterior of the house. The further away from Christmas we get, the fewer houses still have their lights on at night. We happen to be one of those houses. But the lights don't have a shelf life like the tree does, so they're always the final act in the de-Christmafying process.

So tomorrow, when the recycling truck driver takes the tree
Then gives his team a whistle
They'll fly past the homes like the down of a thistle
And I'm sure I'll hear him say as he drives until night
Merry Christmas to all, let's get this trash out of sight.