It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. We were hungry and I wanted a quesadilla. His epiphany came as we went by the canned pasta: put Spaghettios and eggs in it. Sleep depravation made this sound like an interesting experiment at the time. He reassured me it would be the "best white-trash quesadilla ever."
I should've known how this would turn out when he started cooking.
"You don't fry a quesadilla," I said.
"Really?" he asked.
Seriously? I thought.
"No, you just warm up the tortilla, put cheese in it, close, and flip it."
"Well, I'm a yellow person making brown people food. I need guidance."
The "pizzadillas" came shortly after that. I took a bite. It was gooey. And cheesy. And simply flat-out weird. Confused is an understatement for my taste buds. They didn't know how to explain this to my brain.
"You like it?"
This is Brandon's equivalent to "Does this make me look fat?" "It's interesting" was the best I could muster.
"You didn't like it."
I didn't say anything.
"You may insult me, and you may insult my cooking, but you CANNOT insult Billy Ray Cyrus' favourite meal!"
I don't think Billy Ray Cyrus would eat this.
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