that's not an enchilada

The Thursday before the pigroast Axel picked up the pig (with Charlie's assistance) and prepped it for the grill; rubbing it with salt, soaking it liberally in the marinade and packing it away in ice. I didn't help him because I work afternoons so I wasn't home when he brought it home from the butcher.

On the Friday morning I did the last bit of clearing things out of the way so the house would have space for all our guests. I was in a hurry to get ready for work and I knew I had an enchilada sitting in the fridge in a tupperware container, so I figured I could just grab that and bring it to work with me for my dinner. I opened the fridge door, spotted the container in question, threw it into my knapsack and hopped on my bike.

Axel and I almost always eat dinner together when I have my break. Then I go back to work and he heads home. On this particular day we went down to the cafeteria the way we always do, and he popped his lunch into one of the microwaves. I took mine out of the bag with the intent to follow suit. I opened the microwave door, took the lid off the container and then just happened to look down.

Wait a minute.

That's not an enchilada.

...

That's a tongue.

...

I think I ended up having pizza for dinner.