Apparently Santa enjoys little cheesy things

For Christmas, my roommate received what is perhaps the most specialized kitchen appliance I’ve ever had the pleasure of using. It’s a quesadilla maker, which defies all heretofore applicable logic and fills a void not unlike that which would be filled by a soda can opener. We had the tools to make quesadillas just fine up to now!

But it is such an endearing gadget, primarily because it forces us into rediscovering the quesadilla. The options at our disposal! Last night I sandwiched between two ten-inch flour tortillas a combination of cheeses, seasoned pork, onions, and cayenne pepper, then pressed it down between two hot plates for five minutes, having it emerge crispy on the outside, sealed along all edges, and melty on the inside. The quesadilla filled my stomach and the device warmed my heart. What an existence, to do one inconsequential thing but do it so well.

At work they have finally presented me with a Shirt, the standard IT black polo emblazoned with university logo. I am not sure exactly what this means–I have been under the school’s employ for a skosh over a year now and have been neither referred to a dress policy in the employee handbook (there is none) nor explicitly (or implicitly) told anything regarding accepted or permitted dress. I clothe myself well enough–surely I top the man who once worked here and wore as his standard dress a pair of windbreaker pants tucked into his rubber Crocs. At any rate this offering, be it gift or requirement, is size medium, meaning it just as well be size triple-extra-large cause that shit ain’t fitting. I trust they will continue to say nothing to me about my not wearing it.

Merciless agony! And yet and yet I cannot cease thinking of the quesadilla maker. For heaven’s sake I’m thinking I’ll make one tomorrow with eggs and Spam and cheese and hot sauce in it, and at that point isn’t it better a burrito? In our spacially-challenged kitchen it has taken the physical place of our George Foreman, the meat-grilling anthropomorphic steel man himself, surely better known as a burger cooker than a boxer these days, anyway. On one hand I feel like the quesadilla maker will need some sort of name. I think right now it’s a Sante Fe Quesadilla Maker or something stupid like that. On the other hand, naming my appliances is pretty high on the “signs it’s all over” list.

I suppose there are worse ways to go than with a heated tortilla press.