Mishaps with beer-infused fajitas

I would like to preface this post with this statement: Most of the time I am a good cook.

I would also like to add to that by saying that even though I am a good cook, I can still screw up some dishes pretty badly or just cook things in a really odd way.

Like the time when I was eleven and I was watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and decided I wanted some popcorn. Word to the wise: When you’re eleven and don’t know much about microwaves, read the directions very carefully and whatever you do, do not leave the popcorn in the microwave and go watch your movie until the buzzer rings. I was young. I was naive to the fact that leaving popcorn in the microwave to pop after the two seconds between the pop had started it would start burning.

Or the time two summers ago where I cooked hamburgers for my grandma and I and I lined the frying pan with tin foil.

You get the picture. Sometimes I can be really ditzy when it comes to cooking.

I’m in an apartment this year with one of my very best friends (Justin) and both of us enjoy cooking very much. We don’t make meals together all the time, but we each cook ourselves some pretty good meals. Justin makes great tacos. I make some great carbonara and Mexican-style skillets that my grandma used to make (basically my philosophy is that if you can’t put a cheese on it and put it in a tortilla, is there really any point in cooking/eating it? Most of the time yes but cheese and tortillas are just so good.).

On Sunday I had finally decided that I was going to make fajitas the way my dad makes them at home. He marinates them overnight in beer (either Corona or Sol) and lime and they’re literally the greatest things ever–they melt in your mouth and you can hardly taste the beer but can really get a nice taste of lime. I marinated them for Monday, and Danielle (!) was going to come over for dinner and hang out. She was excited because tacos, duh.

Well. I marinated the meat. It seemed to be cooking just fine.

Then I took a bite out of them.

I tried to play it off like they tasted alright.

Then I made Justin try them. He literally spit them out as soon as they hit his taste buds.

They tasted like straight up beer, and it was thoroughly disgusting.

Like, if you could eat beer instead of drink it, this is what it would taste like.

I don’t like drinking beer–and neither does Justin–so you can imagine how terrible this must have tasted.

I’m guessing one of two things (or both) happened: Either I marinated the meat too long, or I forgot something.

Anyways, Justin saved the day and made normal ground beef tacos that had no resemblance of beer to their taste and we had a really good dinner. I didn’t screw up the rice (thank God) or the cheese or the lettuce (although, if I somehow screwed up putting cheese and lettuce in a bowl, I think I should drop all cooking prospects I could ever think to have).

This is only the fourth mishap I’ve had while cooking at the apartment. The others have been pretty minuscule, like my Rice a Roni sticking to the bottom of the pan, or my chicken breast not defrosting all the way (that was terrible). I can’t remember the third one.

I’ll never know what went wrong with the fajitas that were supposed to taste delicious. What I do know is that I’m going to leave all the taco making to Justin.

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