Taco Tuesday on Sunday

Love in the kitchen. Written for the Twenty minute fic challenge with words sandy and bill.

He might have fallen in love the first night Starsky made him tacos. Which seems an oxymoron, because up until then, Hutch had eschewed tacos—almost any Mexican food, for that matter—on principle. He’d imagined tacos to be dripping with grease, too spicy, too fattening, too—whatever he didn’t like in a food. Not to mention Starsky’s enthusiasm for unusual versions of the foodstuff—the abhorrent sounding burritos con peanut butter and jelly as case in point.

He arrived at Starsky’s house to find his host—and best friend—industriously chopping, dicing, and sautéing. There were mounds of lettuce, avocado, and tomatoes on the counter. A big bowl of mushrooms and cheese sat to one side.

“Are we having salad?” he asked curiously. “I thought we were going to take a picnic to the beach.”

“Nope.” Starsky poured canola oil into a large frying pan. He cut several round flour tortillas into pie shaped wedges and dove into his fridge for a bowl of guacamole. “Too sandy at the beach. Practically gale force winds tonight.”

Hutch could tell it was homemade because it still retained actual chunks of avocado lightly sprinkled with onion, garlic, and bits of tomato. “You made that yourself,” he marveled.

“Lots better than that crap they sell at the market.” Starsky tossed wedges of tortilla into the oil. Immediately, they crisped up into golden chips, some with amazing puffs of air in the middle.

Hutch was reminded of his Danish grandmother, Mormor, making appleskiver, a kind of donut. “Starsk, you know I don’t like fried stuff—or Mexican food.”

“Ssh.” Starsky put a finger against Hutch’s mouth. “Wait’ll these cool a little. You’d regret ever paying the bill at Pablo’s Taqueria.”

“I always regret eating there,” Hutch said. “And his prices.”

Starsky plucked up one of the chips, dipped it in guacamole and pushed it toward Hutch. “Mangia.” He laughed. “Italian, I know.”

Hutch crunched the chip, amazed. It was delicious. Light and crispy, nary a hint of the oil it was fried in. He ate two more with the creamy yet chunky guacamole while Starsky sautéed the rest of the mushrooms and strips of chicken.

In no time at all, he’d served up tacos brimming with lettuce, cheese, mushrooms, tomatoes and chicken delicately flavored with garlic. No chili pepper. No heavy spices.

“Dig in,” Starsky urged, his face bright, cheeks slightly pinker than usual from leaning over the hot gas burners. “It’s kinda like a salad, only on a tortilla.”

Hutch wanted to kiss him after the first bite. Starsky had intentionally made food flavored to his taste, yet with Starsky’s favorite Mexican ingredients. “This is terrific!” he enthused, scarfing up the entire taco in only a few bites. There were still some chips left, and the makings for seconds on everything.

“Yeah.” Starsky grinned. “Thought you’d love it.”

“I love you,” Hutch said, because it was true.

They kissed. Starsky tasted of avocado, which was just fine with Hutch.

FIN