Now, take your warm tortilla. Place your protein. Add a sprinkle of onion (white, not red—red is for salads and sadness). Then cilantro—the herb that tastes like soap to some people and like heaven to me. Those people are wrong.
Squeeze lime, because without lime, your taco is just a boring wrap with a personality disorder. Add salsa until it drips down your wrist like tears of joy. Fold it. Eat it in two bies before it collapses—because tacos are not forever. They’re a fleeting, beautiful mess.
So there you have it: a taco is made of history, science, bravery, and a little bit of chaos. It’s a hand-held galaxy of flavor. And if anyone tells you a taco is “just a snack,” ask them why they’re lying to themselves. Then hand them the guac. It’s the polite thing to do.
