Taco Friday in the Super Camper

When Da-da was a tot -- back when mastodons roamed freely and you could secure a complete meal for under $1 -- both his parents worked, so he was occasionally watched by a nice older lady Da-da will call Mrs. Wilson, a retired nurse who also took care of a bunch of other kids. Fridays were especially memorable as both Da-da's parents worked late at Myrna's Discount Crematorium and House-O-Donut Love (there were always more bodies at the end of the week and people clamoring for donuts, hence the later hours). Anyway, since Young Master Da-da was the only kid left past 4:00 pm on Fridays, he was granted the rare solo privilege of taco take-out in the Wilson family super camper -- because Friday was always taco night in the super camper.

Factually, EVERY NIGHT is taco night, as it should be, but Friday tacos are somehow made more special by the memory of either a Taco Tia or an El Taco parking lot (both founded by Glen Bell, who also founded Taco Bell), Da-da seated at that funky oval camper table, the door and windows open to that special, dry air of a Southern California dusk, which has a magical redolence Da-da can't describe (made all the more incredible by orange groves), the three of us chomping happily on yellow wax paper-wrapped ground beef gringo tacos (yes, this was way before those stupid styrofoam containers), each taco consisting of a crisp, hot yellow taco shell filled with the perfect balance of taco meat, crisp green lettuce, shredded cheddar and a slice of tomato, and a little drizzled hot sauce, the sublime gestalt offering itself up in those suburban polyester camper surroundings and MAN is Da-da hungry right now. And YES, like Da-da said, these were indeed GRINGO tacos, but you always want whatever they gave you as a kid, probably because things always taste better to a fresh palate, especially when someone else is paying.

Da-da is invariably scarred by this experience. SCARRED. The Wilsons not only burned an indelible memory, they placed a TACO MONKEY ON DA-DA'S BACK. The damn thing wakes up every Friday. That's it, to hell with you people, DA-DA NEEDS A TACO. Anyone got a camper Da-da can borrow?

Tacos are best inside a super camper, Da-da swears.

Grampa Scotty Eats His Napkin: A True Tale of Gringo Horror

This is obvious, right?

This is Da-da's favorite Grampa Scotty/Cinco de Mayo/gringo horror story. As you may or may not recall, Da-da's dad looks just like Scotty from Star Trek -- which has no bearing on this story, Da-da just finds it infinitely amusing. Onward.

The year was 1958. Grampa Scotty, then about 24, was at his boss's house for dinner in Riverside, CA, which back then was nothing but rolling hills of orange groves and blue sky. Da-da can still smell the spring orange blossoms. Anyway, Young Gramps' boss was Hispanic, and his boss's wife ran a fine-dining Mexican restaurant. Being fresh off the boat from Indiana, Young Grampa Scotty was excited, as he'd never had Mexican food before (Da-da finds this so alien, having grown up with it). Indeed, Young Gramps had never even SEEN Mexican food before, as there were no Mexican restaurants IN HIS ENTIRE STATE, let alone any Hispanic foods in the whitebread grocery stores of 1950s Middle America. No corn chips. No tortillas. No refried beans. Not even a can of salsa. (Then again, a prime porterhouse steak was only $0.89 cents a pound.)

Young Gramps arrived early and hungry. He was then given his first margarita, which blew his mind ("Tequila? Is that a dance?" he asked), and his first chips, salsa and guacamole. Imagine that. Shortly thereafter, dinner was served.

Young Grampa Scotty sat at a large table replete with alien food: tacos, enchiladas, refried beans, guacamole, flautas, bottomless bowls of salsa verde and salsa fresca (and Da-da's getting hungry). Young Gramps took all this in and watched his hosts to see what to do next. He had no idea how to eat this food. Then he watched in horror as his hosts picked up their napkins AND STARTED TO EAT THEM.  

Omigod. They're eating their napkins! What's wrong with these people?

He sat staring at them until they realized their guest was in some kind of Midwestern Culture Shock. They asked him if everything was ok. Stunned, he told them he'd never seen anyone eat their napkins before.

Now it was their turn to stare. The two native Southern Californians suddenly burst out laughing, caught their breath, and laughed again. Trying to hold it together, they tried to explain. "It's not a napkin," (you poor silly gringo), "it's a TORTILLA." More laughter ensued. Young Gramps joined in... and stopped laughing after introducing himself to a big verdant bowl of pickled serranos and jalapenos.

Da-da imagines that this story is still told by Grampa Scotty's boss' family, year after year, echoing laughter across every Cinco de Mayo from hell to juevos rancheros. Tequila Dancing for all Da-da's friends. And would someone please get Grampa Scotty a margarita and a fresh napkin?

Behold: the serrano extinguisher.