My lips are greasy. My eyes are milky. My tummy is stretched to capacity.
My friends, I am, in a word, puffy.
Ever hear of Elote Cafe & Catering? If you read this blog or follow me on Twitter or if you live anywhere besides under a rock, you know the little fresh-Mex cafe I'm talking about. Proprietor chef Libby Auld declared Wednesday evenings the nights of the puffy taco, the menu item for which Elote is best known. The fluffy darlings are just $2 per, and diners have their choice between veggie (my favorite - how can you beat black beans and sweet potatoes on fried masa?) and chicken.
A select group of Tulsans can really put these puffy suckers away. Last week, some freak ate 18 of them. I've been talking smack for the past month or so about how I will soon be crowned the next puffy master. Truth is, that seemed feasible until someone broke the record with 8. The next week, the stakes were raised to 12. Then, while I was sampling some 30-odd craft beers in St. Louis, freakazoid came along and put away a dozen and a half of the darned things.
Tonight, hubs and I managed to put away six each, a mere 1/3 of the capacity of the current puffy master. Even so, it was enough to earn us a spot in the Puffy Club and on the Puffy Wall.
Be like us. Go to Elote. Go Balls to the Wall (because that's technically what any photo of my husband and I hung on the wall can be called, given our last name) and eat six or more puffy tacos. Your liver and thighs will scream, but your taste buds will thank you. Plus, you get your picture taken. Neat!
P.S. Nipples. I'm sorry, but it had to be said. The tension, it was palpable.