A 1,000 Word Meditation On Childhood Trauma, With A Recipe For Can’t-Miss Rooting-Tooting Tex-Mex Casserole At The End, Eventually

I mean, take my mother for instance.

Photo by David Trinks on Unsplash

It started with a simple question: could I create a stress-free weeknight meal that every member of my family (even you-know-who) enjoyed? Six trips to the grocery store, one terrifying experience at a farmer’s market, a lengthy call with a beleaguered cheese monger, and two cans of beans later, I had my answer! But we’ll get to that later.

To truly understand this recipe I need to tell you the backstory of my family in agonizing detail. Starting with my paternal great-great-great grandfather…what an asshole. I get that Ireland in the 1850s was rough — with the lack of potatoes and whatnot (speaking of potatoes, don’t miss my recipe for **Amazeballs Funeral Potatoes/Treatise on Death**) — but c’mon, man, you didn’t have to be such a bummer about it. And, you know what they say about trauma, right? I definitely do not, so please inform me in the comments of this food website where you come to browse food recipes.

That brings me to my next point, which is my great-great grandfather. He was slightly less of a jerk (if you’re wondering how I know these men who died before I was born, well…that is all covered at length in my recipe for Séance Worthy Jalapeño Poppers). But he still was kind of a jerk. Which begat another jerk. Which begat another one. And so on. Oh, shit. Am I a jerk? Wow, I need to process this. I will get to work scouring my recipes for one that pairs well with profound breakthroughs (buffalo chicken wraps?).

I should stop beating around the bush and get to the actual point of this article about a to-die-for Tex-Mex casserole that will have your family begging you for thirds, for the love of God. And that point is: unresolved family trauma.

I mean, take my mother for instance. She is the living embodiment of how regret and loneliness can crystalize into bitterness. Or, rather, she would be if she were still alive. She died during COVID. Although not from COVID itself, which throws people off. I don’t know why I say it like that. All I remember is I was wearing a face-mask when I got the call that she died. And a lot of other things about it. Like, in chilling detail. But those are facts for another time.

Like this paragraph. She had what medical science refers to as “a shit-ass heart.” Which gave out while she was shopping for, ironically, ingredients for my I’m-Gonna-Live-Forever-Chili. Well, it was either a heart attack or, if you believe the private investigator hired by my step-father, an elaborately carried out murder. The jury is still out (literally). But I digress.

You didn’t click on this to read a true crime exposé on my mother’s probable killer (looking at you, Trish from her book club), you came to get some killer weeknight meal inspo! So let’s get right to it!

But first, let me set the scene on how this casserole came to be in the first place! You see, at first there was nothing but darkness. Then the Big Bang happened. Then Earth popped out of the space dust and was like “‘ello, love! I’m a planet! Give us a kiss!” Then some other stuff happened like dinosaurs, a TV show about an alien who eats cats was pitched and green lit, and my twin brother was born. That twin brother, in turn, led to my divorce, but that is a long story…

Which I will tell you about now! Linda Allen Blutt was born on a cold July morning in Lubbock, Texas. She has nothing to do with this, other than the fact that she was my ex-wife’s divorce attorney. And she sucks. Boo, Linda! I have so little!

I did manage to keep my treasured bakeware: a beaut of a Sur La Table casserole dish, which has seen some shit, man. From my elegant Marry-Me-Then-Divorce-Me-Then-Marry-Me-Again-Please-Nancy Chicken, to my Baked Ziti as a Metaphor for Loneliness, this bad-boy has been with me every step of the way. Speaking of casserole dishes…let’s get on with this damn recipe, I guess.

To begin you are going to need to go to a grocery store. Preferably somewhere bright that sells organic stuff, with staff named things like Bear, or Lexi, or Wegovy. Not one of those poorly lit, woefully understaffed grocery stores like the one my mother was murdered/had an innocent heart attack in. But I am getting off track.

Back to the point: families sure do suck, huh? From cold and distant fathers who steadily poison the minds of their sons with toxic masculinity, to cousins who say they are going to invite you to join their fantasy baseball league and then don’t, it’s like all they are good for is disappointment and trauma.

Speaking of disappointment and trauma, on with the recipe:

Ingredients:

2 Cans of Black Beans

1 Green Bell Pepper

1/2 a big ass yellow onion or one whole little ass onion

1 Jalapeño

1 Can of Tex-Mex Casserole Soup

A Mess of White Rice

Enough Cheese to Choke a Small Horse (any kind) (of cheese, the horse MUST be a Miniature Belgian Draft)

1 Bag of Tater Tots

2 Green Onions

1 Bunch of Cilantro

Step 1: Throw cilantro into the trash.

Step 2: Put everything else in the only possession you have left/casserole dish.

Step 3: Bake at 375 degrees for 45 minutes.

Step 4: While casserole is baking, set up mannequins, body pillows with faces drawn on, and/or any Teddy Ruxpin dolls you might have in storage.

Step 5: Position items around your kitchen table as if they were a family that is still alive that loves you.

Step 6: Take casserole out of oven, eat it while complaining to your fake family about how you can’t do anything with your old journalism degree besides get jobs writing for cooking blogs but, goddamn it, you’re going to make the most of it.