Taco Pie

"Wow. This is really good, Mand. I like what you did to the crust." My roommate stabbed her fork into the steaming, cheesy casserole for another bite. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. She continued to rave about how it smelled delicious, as the aroma of melting cheese and spicy meat interrupted the musty smell of our apartment and the sound of sizzling, bubbling grease overpowered the sounds of passing cars. I made some caveman sounding noises in response. I felt guilty. I was being pretentious! Here I was, acting all homemaker like, when in reality I was hopeless even at making mac and cheese. I stared at the taco pie, and pleaded with it to keep my secret. I was a terrible cook. I had ruined every meal my mom had ever patiently tried to teach me. Years of her lecturing always ended in a spontaneous trip to Arby's rather than a home-cooked meal. And one day, something miraculous happened. I tentatively pulled out a casserole from the toasty oven and gasp. Sniff sniff. Mom and I stared at each other with large eyes. We silently lowered our gaze to the casserole before slowly lifting our heads back up. Still quiet, Mom shuffled to the silverware drawer and grabbed a spoon. The spoon plunged into the meal, and then made its entrance into Mom's mouth. Reverence fell among the kitchen. "Mandy. It's--it's good!"
Victory.