Tuesday, September 07, 2004
SOS
Mr. Trujillo-Your chips are almost perfect. They have a savory salt-kissed, and mouthy crunch. Upon rumination, they sit agreeably between the heart and stomach, like a child, sweet-breathed and innocent as the dawn, sleeping at one's breast. Matched with a home-made New Mexico style salsa, they bespeak the very essence of divine union. Stephanie -- my beautiful Southern California bride-to-be -- and I both agree that in spite of their awe-inspiring affect, we can however name their one and only flaw all too well: they are not available for retail sale in California. Finding them is as easy as our annual visits to New Mexico (my family lives in Lincoln) which takes one car, 24 hours and 1600 miles all told. We find that soon on our anchor leg leaving New Mexico we run out of the five or six bags of La Poblanita Party Tostadas we bought for the purpose of easing our transition from the Land of Enchantment to the Golden State. Having grown quite addicted to them, we are at the mercy of whatever treasure we can fit in the back of a Jetta. Can so many bags tide us over in the time between visits? The answer is no. Ever unsatisfied by our fortunes, my parents are known to send care packages of green chilies, Gorman postcards, and your chips - the three finest arts New Mexico has to offer. Only the freight for chilies and postcards is a little more practical. How many times have Stephanie and I stayed up at night wondering how we can get into wholesale distribution business just so we can secretly horde your chips? Far too many times to be respected in the morning. As our obsession grows, we realize there may be more practical means of establishing a pipeline of La Poblanita Party Tostadas between Roswell and San Diego. We could create, sign and distribute a petition, perhaps, mandating the establishment of the La Poblanita railway. Alternatively, we could reenact the Pony Express, calling it the Poblanita Express. However, at any decent canter, horses and riders, though they mean well, may risk damaging the chips. Perhaps, even still, if we pray hard enough, your party tostadas will begin to rain from the sky, as if God Himself agreed that were not more apt cure-all for Southern California than a Party Tostada monsoon? Why turn water into wine, when you can turn Corn, Water, Lime, Vegetable Oil, and Seasonings into some other kind of miracle? No, there must be other, more practical, means. It is my plea, Mr. Trujillo, that we collectively set forth a plan to get you more shelve space in San Diego. Perhaps then, my midnight yearnings can be serviced by a simple, socially acceptable, sojourn to the super market instead. In the meantime, perhaps you'd consider shipping a bag or two a week to our home near the sea. We'd gladly pay the asking price, as well as shipping.
Yours on his last bag,
Kelly Abbott, Party Tostada Addict
Comments:
Post a Comment