Fajitas

Last Saturday for Valentines Day, Scott and I went down to Pocatello to see my family. Romantic, right? Yeah, it was my idea. Anyway, we went to a mexican restaurant for dinner, and I ended up taking home some leftovers, as did my mother and sister. My sister dutifully wrote our names on top of the styrofoam boxes and stashed them in the overflowing fridge when we got home, so when Scott and I went to leave, I just grabbed the box with my name on it.

Fast forward two days, when I started anticipating finishing up my lovely fajita leftovers for dinner. I could just picture the tortilla, chicken and pepper strips, shredded lettuce and cheese, and the spoonful of sour cream that I had lovingly tucked into my styrofoam box. My mouth was watering just thinking about it. Imagine my surprise when I opened the box and was confronted with about a tablespoon of lettuce and two pieces of chicken. My mouth dropped open in surprise. Could I possibly have grabbed the wrong box and ended up with someone elses' pitiful pile of leftovers? It must have been my sister's fault for writing the wrong name on the box! How had I been so careless as to not check the box when I grabbed it out of the fridge? I was sooooo disappointed. I chucked the box with the measly two bites of food into the garbage in protest, and skipped dinner instead.

I went to Scott's house and was sharing my miserable experience with all who would hear. It took me a minute to figure out that Scott's "I'm sorry" was not a consolation for the prize that I had been denied, but an apology for his part in the tragedy. "YOU ATE MY FAJITAS?!?!?!?!" I demanded with incredulity. His guilty smile told me all I needed to know. "I left you lots of lettuce though!" he timidly pointed out with a sheepish grin. I couldn't help but laugh. He owes me for this one. Tonight we are going to Stockman's restaurant, and I fully intend to steal his leftovers, as well as covet my own.