“You were saved by an enchilada,” Kelley said to me the other day. Often profound things we stumble into become the basis for songs we co-write, but this statement landed me here where I tell you, yes, it’s true.
What happened was, the same night I was to make enchiladas, I decided to start transferring all my data from an old computer to new one, which is a lot like a brain transplant but without all the blood, and with plenty more glitches of mysterious nature. I called the computer tech support person, a very kind woman we’ll call Maria who was somewhere in lovely Northern California giving me instructions. “Plug the transfer cable into the USB in each computer,” she said. “Done!” I called back happily only to realize the call dropped. Did I mention I was only hold for 27 minutes before I heard Maria’s voice?
I tried to reach her but had no luck, so I headed to the kitchen to finish sauteeing onions and mushrooms for my self-proclaimed famous spinach enchiladas, which I was making for our friend Doug who miraculously survived an horrendous car accident with his spirit not just intact, but high-voltage shining. I stirred the refried beans into the melted Alma cheddar cheese until Maria called back. Wisely, I shut off the burners and dragged Shay the dog, who would like to make the enchiladas his own way, into my office with me and closed the door.
“I’m so sorry the call dropped. Did you get the computers connected?” Before I could answer, the call dropped again. She called back and gave me her number for when it happened next. We went back to data migration land where all the highways were closed, and the map didn’t match the journey. She had an idea though, and she was about to tell me when the called dropped again. I tried to call back, but couldn’t reach her, so I returned to the enchiladas.
I turned back on the burners, and started mixing everything together with the steamed spinach and salsa into a gloppy and delicious mess. I was about to start rolling the glop into the tortillas when Maria called back. Back to the office with dog and all manner of fire off.
This time, we got five minutes before the called dropped again, and when she called back, she explained something (not a surprise to me by now) was wrong with their phones today. We continued a staccato dialogue of starting one thing, losing the call, getting re-connected, and finding out that what we started wasn’t working. In the end, it was impossible to migrate my documents, music, photos and more with the cord I had (days later, I would discover it was impossible with the cord Maria suggested instead too), and the call dropped another 5 times.
By the time it was over, there were just the enchiladas to attend to, and because I was making them for a friend who had been through such trauma and danger, I had to let go of attending any bitchfest, and instead, sing into those tortillas as I placed them, side by side, in the pan. As I poured shredded cheese and more salsa on the whole of them, I realized how grateful I was to able to escape the virtual world for the real one, which — I know because I made another tray of enchiladas for us too — tastes far better.