burritoBurrito, bolus in my belly, fire in my breast. My dinner, my doom. Boo-rree-toh: the trill of the tongue wrapped before and behind by the osculating opening of the lips. Boo. Rree. Toh. It was lengua, stewed lengua, in the middle, morsels melting from meat to stock. It was beans and rice below. It was salsa de tomate on top. But in the tortilla it was all a Burrito.


  1. Quin Finnegan says


    • Angelico Nguyen, Esq., OP says

      Burrito should make all of us — parents, school nutritionists, educators — apply ourselves with still greater vigilance and vision to the task of bringing up a better generation in a healthier world.

  2. Rufus McCain says

    A burro burdened with a bundle of burritos is beginning to barge into my barrio.

  3. Angelico Nguyen, Esq., OP says

    Seriously though, I did recently finish the audiobook of Lolita, my first Nabokov novel (which I listened to concurrently with the Confessions of St Augustine — a heady mix of confessions fictional and autobiographical, modern and ancient, heathen and Christian).

    Quin, as relieved as I am to be rid of Humbert Humbert (reading his narration was like dining with Hannibal Lecter), the book was excellent, and I believe I do see what you — and so many others — see in Nabokov. Now I’m eager to find out what else he could do in (meta)fiction. I know you’re especially fond of Pnin, but I’ve lately been craving heroic couplets, so Pale Fire might be next on my list. In any case, I look forward to comparing notes.

    • Broderick Barker says

      Personally, I crave a couple of burritos, the consumption of which in a single sitting is little short of heroic.

      • Angelico Nguyen, Esq., OP says

        Sing, Muse, the appetite of Broderick:
        The man who, neither satisfied nor sick,
        Destroyed burritos by the brace, or score;
        Devouring dozens, hunting hundreds more;
        That man, o Muse, concupiscence foredoomed:
        Consuming all, with craving all-consumed.

  4. Broderick Barker says

    Korrektiv, chatter in my ear, kick in my ass. My site, my secret. Kor-rek-tiv: the tip of the tongue taking a trip from the base of the mouth to tap, at three, on the teeth. Kor. Rek. Tiv. It was a blog, a plain blog, at the outset, tying three found souls with strands of Interweb. It was a website after Expat. It was a publishing house in our dreams. It was Korrektiv Press on the radio. But in the comments it was always Korrektiv.

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