THE TACOS
I had never had Birria Tacos. Not at a food truck. Not in a restaurant. Not at someone’s house. But they were all over the internet and they looked like heaven to me. Call me “influenced.” I wanted to try them so bad. But we don’t go to restaurants very often–doing so with five kids is not the most convenient or economical activity–so I knew that if I wanted to try them I was going to have to do as I have always done:
Hunt down multiple recipes.
Experiment.
Amalgamate.
Figure it out for myself.
I’ve done this with other foods I have longed for but had no access to. I once ate the most amazing, mouth-watering Hungarian goulash on a beach, made by the Hungarian (I believe?) girlfriend of one of my Marine Corps buddies. It took a lot of work for me to figure out that recipe and to realize, a decade later, that the girlfriend was right all along. It DOES have to simmer for at least 2 hours for the paprika to get all incorporated and mellow and rich.
Likewise when I wanted the amazing korma and saag from the DesiWok restaurant in my hometown, what was I supposed to do? Mix and match between a dozen recipes, get it right, then wrong, then right again.
So now with birria tacos. I’d seen the videos. I read the recipes. I cook a lot, so I understand basic principles. I set to it.
I was so excited to try my first attempt. I had a clear expectation. Even though I had never had them, I still had a pretty good idea of what it was supposed to taste like. At least, I thought so. In any case, they were unbelievably amazing in my imagination.
Well the tacos were…okay. Certainly edible. Just fine. A perfect 3-star meh.
And I just knew that couldn’t be it. Something was missing. I scrapped the recipe I’d been working off and used a different recipe as a base (if you cook a lot you don’t need a recipe so much as a recipe base. Experience and intuition will usually cover the rest).
There was a flavor that my heart was longing for, and I hadn’t reached it. That’s all I knew.
New recipe. New attempt. This time, I knew I was on the right track. The flavor was richer and deeper and livelier. Everything about it was 10x better. The base of this recipe was GOOD. And now all I needed to do was make those little tweaks and adjustments to taste. Either way, what I now have is worth keeping and refining.
Usually takes me 2-5 attempts to land on *THE RECIPE*
THE CHAPTER
As of the time of my writing this I am working on chapter 25 of book 3 in my Land of Exile series. The chapter number might change. It might get split into two chapters. I don’t know what the title of the book is. All that is beside the point.
The point is, I’m still trying to hit on the correct recipe. I think I’m getting close.
The first attempt was a complete bust. I wrote about 1,300 words and I could tell–I could just TELL–it lacked the depth and richness of flavor I was craving. The POV character was talking to the wrong person, it felt a bit off, a bit contrived.
I mean you could consume it. It was inoffensive. It would convey the information. It would get you to the next scene. But would you want to eat it again? No.
Way too bland.
So. Scrap it. Start over with a fresh recipe. Different POV? Maybe, maybe not. Or just a different angle from the same POV? What if he was talking to her instead of him? That could work. That conversation would taste very different, because the relationship between that one character and her is quite different, and that would come through in subtle ways. Much more complex, piquant flavor if she’s the one answering those questions. Hmm.
Okay. This tastes WAY better. But…I’m not quite there yet. More salt? Is the flavor too one-note? A hint of acidity perhaps? Yes that character would be feeling sharp anger and desperation, wouldn’t they? But they can’t let it show too much, so we’ll have to put in only a hint of that.
Part two of the chapter. New POV. Flavor’s a little flat again. How did that happen? Gotta work with the flavor profile I’ve already got going, don’t I? Go back to that: A bitter, frustrated undertone. No time for frivolous conversation, so let’s not let that drag on. Plenty of sour irritation and contempt that isn’t allow to show through too much.
How many recipes to I have to go through, experiment with, amalgamate, and tweak before I discover the final chapter? Till it has all the savor and complexity and depth I longed for from the beginning?
Sometimes just one or two.
Sometimes a lot more than that.
But I really don’t want to settle for a weak flavor that’s only halfway there. For ‘good enough I guess.’ I want it to feed the soul. I want to be able to savor every bite and crave more after. If I don’t feel that way, reader, how on earth can I expect you to?
J. L. Odom 