Which one of these is a quesadilla maker?


 If you said “A”, you’re a moron. But don’t feel bad.
I was a moron once, too.

A few years ago, while looking for a Valentine’s Day gift for my wife, I happened upon a great deal on the above pictured “A”.  Over strong objections from my daughter, I purchased said item “A” and presented it to my lovely spouse.  She thought I was out of my mind and I reluctantly returned “A” for a refund. 


But I always thought, deep down inside, that “A” was the bomb.  I mean, a machine the makes quesadillas!  So recently I purchased a brand new “A” at the store.  OK, it was a thrift store but is was brand new.  Well, I thought it was brand new but when I took it out of the box I found it was indeed used.  So I actually bought a used quesadilla maker at the thrift store.

But I had it! 

That night I offered to prepare my wife a quesadilla.  So I cleaned my disappointingly used quesadilla maker and turned it on.  (I did have to go on-line to find the instructions as my new/used quesadilla maker was lacking those)  It has two lights, neither of which tells you when the quesadilla is done.  You have to time it – which was already way more work than I wanted to do.

So I put cheese between two tortillas, closed the lid and waited 4 minutes.  When I opened the lid, there was a perfectly brown tortilla staring back at me.  It looked great!  Unfortunately, it was surrounded by a lot of the cheese that had oozed out of the tortillas.  Actually is was surrounded by all the cheese I had put in the tortillas.  So I gave it to my wife and she said something snappy like,
“Isn’t there supposed to be cheese in a cheese quesadilla?”

I then took my brand new used quesadilla maker, put it back in the box (that looked new) and went out to the garbage can and threw it away. 

I was a moron.

I mean, the thing is called the Santa Fe quesadilla maker but it sure wasn’t made in Santa Fe and I doubt that anyone who lives in New Mexico would be stupid enough to buy one.

It’s made in China – like everything else. 

I can imagine the conversation between two Chinese guys building quesadilla makers:

Guy 1: What’s a quesadilla?

Guy 2: It’s two tortillas filled with cheese and other stuff.

Guy 1: What’s a tortilla?

Guy 2:  It’s a thin round of unleavened bread made of cornmeal or wheat flour usually eaten hot with a topping of . . . 

(Guy 1 is no longer paying attention as he is busy checking out the new girl assembling George Foreman grills two rows over.)

“B” is a quesadilla maker, by the way.


There are zombies. 

They are real.

They are among us.

Your boss may be a zombie.  Your mailman may be a zombie.  Your congressman is most definitely a zombie.

And, worst of all, one of your children may be a zombie!!!!

For, alas, I fear my youngest daughter may be a zombie, or, at the very least, a daywalker.

Every year all the zombies in the United States gather in my hometown, Portland Oregon, and march en mass (that’s a French term) through the streets.  They walk at night on the very same streets in this fair city that you and I tread!  OK, I very seldom go downtown because of the over abundance of daywalkers and gingers, but some of you may actually tread on those streets.

Oh, the humanity!
It’s horrible!

Here’s the one that I fear most:
And here’s a picture of a leg:

That’s all.