You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a tortilla in a dog’s mouth like it’s a prize from a treasure hunt, and I mean that in the most loving way.
Last summer, at my cousin Nina’s place, we all gathered for what was supposed to be a casual backyard lunch. Nothing fancy. Just tacos, family, and some laughs. You know, the usual.
But Nina had other plans.
The Great Tortilla Ambition
Now, Nina is the kind of person who means well – the kind of person who says, “I saw this on a cooking show, I can totally do it!” and then invites twelve people over.
So when she said, “I’m making homemade tortillas,” I thought, Alright, let’s buckle up.
She stood there, proudly tossing aside the package of store-bought tortillas like it was beneath her. “Homemade is where the soul is,” she said, like she was on a cooking show.
I should probably mention that Nina once burned water.
Chaos, Flour, and One Very Fast Dog
The kitchen? A total disaster. There was flour in the air like mist. Dough clung to the cabinets. Rolling pins clattered. It was like watching a cooking challenge where everyone loses.
And in the middle of it all was Max – the family’s golden retriever.
Max had been lying low under the table, quiet as ever, until the moment a half-cooked tortilla hit the floor. In a flash, he grabbed it in his mouth and strutted off like he’d just won the lottery.
I turned around and there he was: sitting upright, tail wagging, proudly holding the tortilla like a champion. The moment was golden, literally. We still have a picture of him with that tortilla. He looked like he knew what he was doing. Like he had earned that tortilla. Honestly, he might’ve deserved it more than the rest of us.
The Wrap That Snapped
Eventually, Nina presented a stack of her “tortillas.” I use quotes here, not to be rude, but because they looked like crispy flying saucers. Still, we were kind. We filled them with the works: grilled chicken, beans, cheese, guac – you name it.
Then came the folding.
I bent mine gently, hoping for the best. And… snap. My tortilla cracked right down the middle and catapulted a spoonful of guacamole across the table. It landed, in all its green glory, on Aunt Clara’s cream-colored blouse.
The room froze. Even Max paused mid-chew.
Aunt Clara, always graceful and quiet, looked down. Then she dipped her finger in the guac, tasted it, and said, “Mmm. Needs more lime.”
I’ve never heard a louder burst of laughter. It was like every bit of tension dissolved at once. Nina, covered in flour with a tortilla stuck to her sleeve, laughed the hardest of all.
From Disaster to Delight
We ditched the wraps and went full taco bowl mode. Rice, beans, all the fillings – just minus the tortilla pressure.
It turned out to be the most relaxed, joy-filled meal of the whole summer. The kind of lunch where people don’t rush. Where they linger at the table, refill their drinks, and pass around salsa bowls like they’re family heirlooms.
And Max? He scored a second tortilla. Not dropped this time – gifted, like the hero he was.
Lessons from a Cracked Wrap
That day didn’t go as planned – and that’s exactly why it was perfect.
There’s something strangely comforting in kitchen chaos. Something real. Real flour on the floor. Real laughter echoes off the walls. Real stories you tell for years to come.
It reminded me that the best memories rarely come from perfection. They come from messes. From mistakes. From guacamole stains and overcooked tortillas and dogs who steal the spotlight.
Final Thoughts
So here’s the truth: Nina may never live down her tortilla adventure. But she made a memory no store-bought wrap could ever deliver.
Sometimes, the best meals are the ones that go off script.
And if you ask me? Keep a backup pack of tortillas in the freezer – just in case your own soulful cooking moment turns into a comedy. (Also, give your dog a treat. Even if it’s not a tortilla.)
