Shredded Bliss.

When I was in my fifth and sixth years of college, I was taking mostly writing and literature classes. I was still in college at that point because I had decided to tack on an English minor when I was almost completely finished with my Social Science (History/Philosophy/Political Science) Major. You might think I was deferring the inevitable, but really I had quite belatedly figured out what I really wanted to do.

In my studies, between Boccaccio and Zora Neale Hurston, was the quaint Ms. Emily Dickinson. During that time, I envisioned a similar life for myself as hers—one that found me alone, unmarried, reclusive, and happily eccentric. I embraced this fate to the point of building my stone cottage in my mind, planting imaginary herb gardens around it, and brewing a pot of fictitious tea that I would sip throughout the day while I typed my yet unwritten works. This all sounded divine to me.

But right after I graduated, my dreams of spinsterhood were dashed. Because…I met the man who is now my husband. The first love interest ever who accepted me for my strangeness, rather than despite it. Who I didn’t feel I had to change for in any way (for real or perceived). Who was my intellectual equal and often my superior, without ever making me feel it. A friend like no one I have ever known.

And, so, at age 24, I chose this mate—and he, at 23, chose me. Six years later we decided to make it legal, and today is our 13th anniversary. (That’s 19 years if you do the math. Whoa.)

For this occasion, I’m making shredded beef burritos, at the request of Mr. B. The recipe dates back to our early days and survives time well.

(I had planned to share it here, but I had some trouble with the sauce, lots of cursing followed, and though it did turn out in the end, I'd rather not talk about it right now.)

This better be good, damnit!