It Had to Be Chorizo

How my mother and chorizo held me hostage for over two decades.

I was 16. My mom’s sister, visiting from Florida, who I might describe as the crazy aunt, if all 6 of them plus my mom weren’t also crazy. All the women on my mom’s side. Mothers and daughters alike. Crazy. Beautiful. Obnoxious. Present. Life. Cackling in the kitchen, drinking their coffee. Up to no good. Always.

Somehow, someone brought up chorizo and the level of hyperfixation on the subject was nearly unhealthy. Especially when I indicated I’d never tried it.

My Aunt almost shamed me for being from SoCal and never having tried it. Like it’s my fault. Your sister, my mother, raised me. Blame my mom.

Anyway - When I asked what chorizo was, my aunt gleefully explained that it’s a sausage made from all the parts of the pig nobody wanted to eat. You know, like its face...

Mind you, at the time I was in a PETA phase and had just written a research paper on pig farms the month before. You can only imagine the shit I learned about the treatment of piglets.

I said, “Absolutely the fuck not.” They were talking about going out for some to make breakfast burritos the next morning.

I declared-stated-made known that I had no desire to try chorizo.

These bitches...

These fucking bitches.

Next morning-summertime, school is out. I stayed up all night playing Oblivion. 11am rolls around and my mom wakes me up, but doesn’t wait ’til I’m fully awake before shoving a goddamn chorizo burrito in my mouth. Bright orange grease coated my mouth. Dripped off my chin. STAINED my bedding.

And guess what? It tastes terrible.

I laugh about it now. My mom was feral, bro. She was gonna get me to try that fucking chorizo if she had to force it down. She wasn’t vindictive. She was a jokester. The type of woman who would have gone viral before the internet even existed. Completely committed to the bit.

And honestly? I’d let her force-feed me a thousand more breakfast burritos if it meant I got one more morning with her.