To those also wishing to make the not-so Quesadilla: I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature.
The origins of this creation formed one ominously cloudy October night in the haunt known as the Deece as the Chapel bell proclaimed the witching hour. Aghast at the Late Night options of malodorous chicken and potato chips paired with hummus, I wandered over to the Your Kitchen wing to amalgamate several ingredients for a sandwich. However, all that remained were the lifeless plastic sheaths of what once held the great bread names White, Wheat, Rye and Whole Grain. All that remained was their sorry and oft-forgotten cousin, Toufayan Bakeries® Quality Wraps. While I was suspicious at first, the bags promised that they were improved and had no trans fat. I was intrigued by this forewarning but nevertheless progressed on in my quest for nourishment. With how many things are we on the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries.
Despite these flaws to the initial plan, I felt it to be inevitable that I continue my journey. But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil: too much of a love for cheese. The vast graveyard of cheeses displayed tombstones in various family plots: Pepper Jack, Swiss, Provolone and Cheddar. For hope of a delicious synthetic meal, I dug out slices from each cheese pillar onto the makeshift work table of the wrap.
In a fit in which I was overpowered by my unrepressed craving, my eye spotted tomatoes and pickles. Pickles in a quesadilla? Madness. Sheer madness. Logic disappeared in the moment and these strangers made acquaintance with the stockpile of cheeses.
The hour grew dim. I could see flashes of lightning in fits and bursts outside the oblong and distorted windows. It was time for my experiment to come to life. I approached the steaming sauna locals called the panini press. Having dressed the savory body for the testing, I laid the wrap down on the ridged surface and the heat spread through every inch of the wretched wrap.
As I pressed down the little lever of the panini press, I muttered hysterically to myself: “Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.” While the heated lightning known as electricity distributed itself within the beast of cheese and grain, I was left only to look on as nature defied its traditional course. The fire was good.
Upon sight, the billowing smoke and pulsations from the bubbling cheese could make an onlooker believe the monster was alive. I did it. A modern Prometheus, I had unchained the conservative conventions of a traditional quesadilla, freely roaming uncharted culinary discourse.
“Man,” I cried, “How ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom!”
With the aid of tongs, I transported the daemon, bearing simmering scars induced by the experiment, from the press.
My pace quickened, a combination of my astonishment to the results and inability to find a table. Settling in a lurking corner, I indulged in the nourishing pleasure of eating. The consumption was like a Gothic landscape, providing the familiar elements of cheese with elements of the uncanny, a reaction to the quadruplets of pickles and tomato.
It was done. I left the remnants of the monster to drift away on the conveyer belt, like a giant specter floating off on an iceberg.
Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. And I changed the quesadilla.