The Great Enchilada Debacle

There are moments in a marriage that make you scratch your head and wonder, "what the heck just happened?" Cute husband and I haven't been married too long (two years this summer), but we have had a few of those moments. My favorite is what I like to refer to as the Great Enchilada Debacle. I share this with the absolute permission of my husband. It's one of those moments of crazy that makes us laugh until we have tears in our eyes. I love that about our marriage.

My husband and his father have a long-standing tradition of movie night. They get together, watch some sort of manly action film, and eat a ton of junk food and drink crazy amounts of high-fructose corn syrup laced beverages. About three months after we got married, my father-in-law came up to our condo on a Wednesday evening to watch Thor with BJ while I went to a church meeting.

Hubby can pack away food in a way that defies physics and all consumption sensibilities. I don't know how he does it. BJ is not a big guy. He is compact, trim, and would have made a killer male gymnast because of his size and flexibility. Sometimes, when he eats, you would think he was an NFL linebacker. After only three months of marriage, I didn't fully understand his propensity for consumption. My father-in-law must be the genetic legacy for this ability, because the two of them together can decimate a large quantity of food. Ah, the bliss of marital ignorance, shattered once and for all by the Great Enchilada Debacle.

I am an OCD meal-planner. For this particular night, I planned to make Enchiladas Suizas, with the savory green sauce, from scratch. I didn't cull my own chicken, but everything besides that was made by my own two domesticity-loving hands. I roasted the tomatillos and peppers for the sauce. Blended them with delicious sour cream and chicken stock. Shredded and seasoned the chicken. Used the good Tillamook cheese. And made two dozen flour tortillas myself, rolling them out to perfection and quickly cooking them in a piping hot skillet. It was a meal any home chef would be proud of. After two hours of prep and assembly, two large 9 x 13 pans of crispy, melty enchiladas emerged from the oven, and I was in scent-induced heaven. I had to leave for my meeting so I decided to eat when I got home, bid farewell to hubby and father-in-law, and went on my merry way.

Throughout the entire meeting, I fantasized about these enchiladas. At 8:30, I made a beeline for the parking lot, buzzed home in the car, and threw open the back door in a triumphant burst of glory, mouth watering and stomach growling. Then I saw it. The carnage. The horror.

There was one enchilada left. Out of two dozen. One. And it had been packed into a plastic container for hubby's lunch the next day.

I stood, dumbfounded, and stared into our darkened living room as BJ and his Dad watched Thor's golden locks ripple in the breeze and the sunlight sparkle on his perfect washboard abs. And I wanted to smash them with Thor's hammer. Hubby and father-in-law, not Thor's abs. Heavens no. Who could ever want to destroy those?

Alright, I might be overly dramatizing things here. But I was seriously pissed. Who eats 23 enchiladas in one sitting? Gluttons! Gah!

I think they both figured out something was wrong as I stood motionless in the dimly-lit kitchen, purse dropped to the floor, hands on my hips, mouth open in horror over the enchilada murder scene in my kitchen. Maybe they felt the heat of rage permeating the space between us. Maybe it was the flecks of foam frothing out of my mouth as I mourned the loss of my dinner. I'm not really sure, but the next thing I knew, I was scooping up my purse and dashing out the door in a frenzied state.

I jumped in the car, snorting like a bull about to charge through the crowds at Pamplona. I was sweating, hands shaking, and tears sprung to my eyes as I drove out of the parking lot. In two short minutes, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of the local frozen custard shop. I dashed in the door, and in a raspy and frantic voice ordered a large root beer float. It came out from behind the counter in all of it's frothy glory, and I gulped at it eagerly. Sweet carbonated nectar to my soul. Even better than Thor's abs...

It was about this time that sanity returned to my mind. I had run out the door like a whackadoodle, probably making wildebeest noises, with no explanation. I don't think that even Thor's abs could distract them enough to hide that fact. I slowly slugged my way back to the car as my body returned to homeostasis. The root beer and vanilla custard were working their way into my system, calming my frazzled nerves. I hopped in the car and fell back against the seat, temporarily satiated.

I drove home in silence, as the question, "what the heck just happened?" worked it's way into my mind. I was still mad, don't get me wrong, but I started to realize that maybe there was a slight overreaction on my part. I mean, I basically turned into the Hulk in my kitchen over enchiladas. Over dreamy, creamy enchiladas...delicious, but definitely not a reason for a psychotic break.

I arrived home to the credits rolling on the movie, and BJ looking confused and my precious father-in-law looking sheepish. They knew what had happened. There was no way to hide what I was upset about. The root beer float in my hand and crazy fire blazing in my eyes probably gave them a subtle hint. They both mumbled some apologies about eating all of the food, and then Dad left and BJ and I were left to debrief the Great Enchilada Debacle.

In the end, it took a few weeks before we arrived at a final post-mortem diagnosis of what happened. I could have asked BJ to save a few for me for dinner when I got home. BJ could have thought about my need to eat dinner before consuming 23 enchiladas. Lesson learned: communication is key! It wasn't until this experience that it dawned on me that I can't always expect my husband to meet my needs, especially if he doesn't know what they are. It actually helped me to be a lot more open about communicating what I needed, versus my previous modus operandi of being disappointed, guzzling rootbeer floats, and stewing over the injustice of pilfered dinner for weeks. My counselor introduced the idea to me that our partners can only meet our needs on their own 10% of the time. 90% of having our needs met is being able to communicate them effectively. This entire incident was a huge wake-up call for me, and I mark it as a turning point in our marriage.

Marriage and family are the hardest and greatest works of our lives. I am grateful to have the chance to learn, grow, laugh hysterically, and overcome being a complete nutjob with my sweetheart. Even if he does eat all of my enchiladas.