Last night, with mama at work, my daughter asks, “Daddy, what do you love about mommy?” All of a sudden, I felt like a gay Tony Soprano, splathering, “I love that she’s the mother of my children.” Still, I’m not loving mama more, for saying in mean spirited, call back jest, “Don’t worry, Matilda, I won’t divorce Daddy if he keeps on making Quesadilla’s like this.” You can make an argument that a comedian should be able to take a joke at his own expense to. Still, when, my precious Bashert daughter gets involved, knowing she was the one who retrieved mama’s smartphone search history involving how to do divorce an unemployed, lushy, stay at home, she male comedian, made the offhanded on the surface innocuous reply, personally offensive to me, because I don’t consider my daughter’s happiness plummeting through the equator without me in her life in my standard, beautifying at home fashion a laughing matter to derive self-serving chuckles with.
But just to reminisce a little, my love for the Quesadilla doesn’t start with past Brooklyn made Quesadilla’s flush with bomb fresh, not too tarty goat cheese and glistening, piercing green zucchini blossoms, which you always spend a spleen on at the Farmer’s Market to get, the 2 days a year they’re for sale at the Farmer’s Market in Union Square and beyond. No, the roots of my fetching, surging interest in recreating some Quesadilla love on my own from home, stems from the various salsa’s I fell in love with during my IT Headhunter agency days after college throughout Southern, California, before it resembled an extended, roadside mall tent city.
The Black Dog Café on Wilshire Blvd. across the street from E Entertainment Television where I scored my 1st temp job in LA, which lead to me dating a casting director who used to date Gabriel Byrne from Unusual Suspects, is where my lifelong fixation on replicating the side herbed, darkened hued, tomato salsa to dip their bomb scallion, diced up chicken breast, medium sharp cheddar, always tasty, never lump or dried up, scrambled egg lined Quesadilla began. I’ll never forgive my younger brother for giving me grief for taking him to the Black Dog Café when he visited from NY once, going completely ballistic over the fact how I made the affordable, posh, no line hassle, brunch dining experience all about my needs instead of his, because I dared to order him something different than his standard, bacon egg and cheese on a roll. Granted, my younger brother had no clue about the incredibly annoying fact how in 2001 in LA, deli’s that served bacon, egg and cheeses didn’t exist, forcing me to try a microwaved egg sandwich once, which tastes like zapped happiness on the spot.
The Black Dog egg and cheese Quesadilla with the killer side of zippy, never soupy dark red salsa was never burnt beneath and their in-house, dark roast coffee blend to help digest this meaty, scrumptious, protein rich, breakfast offering, made any meh deli back east, with their faded Goodfellas posters, barely hanging on for dear life, a far flung, easily discarded, memory. When I lived in Sherman Oaks in the Valley, I would schlep over the Laurel Canyon up to borderline Koreatown to hit up my old school stomping ground at the Black Dog Café, just for that blended, concentrated blast, of brain deepening dark roast coffee again and again. So go woke yourself little bro, you unsophisticated hick, who orders angostura bitters to put in the Woodford Reserve with one cube I ordered for both of us to celebrate the birth of my lucky number 3, my chest.
Tito’s Taco’s in Culver City also offered a simple yet bomb Salsa, which you could always order a larger side portion of for less than 4 bucks, which was a consistent no-brainer like hitting on the chesty MILF at the Black Dog Cafe, only for you to regret receiving her phone number after she insisted, “We do more than meet for a drink”, as if I’d waste a Benjamin on taking her to Six Flags in Valencia either. I used to live in West Hollywood and would take my ex-live-in girlfriend to a local Tex-Mex joint on Santa Monica, which boasted a beautiful retractable roof while serving the freshest, sliced, heat packing Jalapeno’s that every chicken and steak fajita felt incomplete depressing without them dancing on top.
So yeah, back to the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla to keep your kids mental health in good shape for another day. Sauteing red, yellow, orange, any sweet pepper with red onion in butter alone and you’re set it the veggie department. Throw some freaking Arugula in there to make your soul feel healthier than usual if you’d like. Shredded cheddar is nice, but so is the killer combo from Stew Leonard’s, which boasts Queso, the Mexican Mozzarella, light Cheddar and plenty of creamy, meant to be melted Monterey.
Making homemade salsa for the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla proves, you’re not above being cheesy romantic either. I made a new batch yesterday and served it to my nurse wife upstairs in bed at 1, who worked all night prior and said, “Divorce Immunity Quesadilla Part 2.” Wife laughed long time. So never underestimate the power of the comedic callback and forgiving, loving nature of the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla, because there’s nothing cheesy about giving love another shot, in a joy spewing, non-begrudging way, with all you got.