It's always harder on the weekends

It's usually Saturday and Sunday late mornings when I go into serious withdrawl over the breakfast taco.

Ah, the breakfast taco. Eggs, cheese, bacon, spicy peppers, potato, salsa, grease. All in a warmed soft tortilla. You can be accompanied by your friend coffee in endless refills. You make hangovers seem miles away. To eat the blessed breakfast taco on a sunny patio with the paper and some friends.... please pardon me while my heart breaks a little bit.

Oh breakfast taco....why is it that you remain so far south? The bagel just can't compare to your majesty and deliciousness. A country style breakfast just represents you in your dismembered form. The bacon is just too nervous to mingle with the potatos. The eggs may come in some form other than scrambled. And salsa or guacamole is nowhere to be seen. It doesn't even matter if your wait person forgets to bring out the forks...you, oh breakfast taco, have shown us that it is acceptable to eat with our hands.

Of course I could always assemble a breakfast taco or two in my kitchen. But that, my friends, is beside the point. There is something far less satisfying when you have to drag your hungover ass out of bed and make this heavenly food. It should just be there. Smiling when you enter a decent mexican/tex-mex restaurant.

This rant was brought on by my sad little egg white omelet, which lacked the special something I was looking for this morning.