Sign in with Facebook
Fluffy Quotes
Fluffy
by
Julia Kent5,768 ratings, 3.82 average rating, 980 reviews
Open Preview
Fluffy Quotes
Showing 1-9 of 9
“Our two taco specials get shoved up on the serving counter, crispy, cheesy goodness in brown plastic baskets lined with parchment paper, sour cream and guacamole exactly where they should be.
On the side.
There is a perfect ratio of sour cream, guac, and salsa on a shredded chicken tostada. No one can make it happen for you. Many restaurants have tried. All have failed. Only the mouth knows its own pleasure, and calibration like Taco Heaven cannot be mass produced.
It simply cannot.
Taco Heaven is a sensory explosion of flavor that defies logic. First, you have to eye the amount of spiced meat, shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, and tomatillos. You must consider the size and crispiness of the shells. Some people–I call them blasphemers–like soft tacos. I am sitting across from Exhibit A.
We won’t talk about soft tacos. They don’t make it to Taco Heaven. People who eat soft tacos live in Taco Purgatory, never fully understanding their moral failings, repeating the same mistakes again and again for all eternity.
Like Perky and dating.
Once you inventory your meat, lettuce, tomato, and shell quality, the real construction begins. Making your way to Taco Heaven is like a mechanical engineer building a bridge in your mouth. Measurements must be exact. Payloads are all about formulas and precision. One miscalculation and it all fails.
Taco Death is worse than Taco Purgatory, because the only reason for Taco Death is miscalculation.
And that’s all on you.
“Oh, God,” Fiona groans through a mouthful of abomination. “You’re doing it, aren’t you?”
“Doing what?” I ask primly, knowing damn well what she’s talking about.
“You treat eating tacos like you’re the star of some Mythbusters show.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Even if I do–and I am notconceding the point–it would be a worthwhile venture.”
“You are as weird about your tacos as Perky is about her coffee.”
“Take it back! I am not that weird.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
“This is why Perky and I swore we would never come here with you again.”
Fiona grabs my guacamole and smears the rounded scoop all over the outside of her soft taco.
I shriek.
“How can you do that?” I gasp, the murder of the perfect ratio a painful, almost palpable blow. The mashed avocado has a death rattle that rings in my ears.
Smug, tight lips give me a grimace. “See? A normal person would shout, ‘Hey! That’s mine!’ but you’re more offended that I’ve desecrated my inferior taco wrapping with the wrong amount of guac.”
“Because it’s wrong.”
“You should have gone to MIT, Mal. You need a job that involves nothing but pure math for the sake of calculating stupid shit no one else cares about.”
“So glad to know that a preschool teacher holds such high regard for math,” I snark back. And MIT didn’t give me the kind of merit aid package I got from Brown, I don’t add.
“Was that supposed to sting?”
She takes the rest of my guacamole, grabs a spoon, and starts eating it straight out of the little white paper scoop container thing.
“How can you do that? It’s like people who dip their french fries in mayonnaise.” I shudder, standing to get in line to buy more guac.
“I dip my french fries in mayo!”
“More evidence of your madness, Fi. Get help now. It may not be too late.” I stick my finger in her face. “And by the way, you and Perky talk about my taco habits behind my back? Some friends!” I hmph and turn toward the counter.”
― Fluffy
On the side.
There is a perfect ratio of sour cream, guac, and salsa on a shredded chicken tostada. No one can make it happen for you. Many restaurants have tried. All have failed. Only the mouth knows its own pleasure, and calibration like Taco Heaven cannot be mass produced.
It simply cannot.
Taco Heaven is a sensory explosion of flavor that defies logic. First, you have to eye the amount of spiced meat, shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, and tomatillos. You must consider the size and crispiness of the shells. Some people–I call them blasphemers–like soft tacos. I am sitting across from Exhibit A.
We won’t talk about soft tacos. They don’t make it to Taco Heaven. People who eat soft tacos live in Taco Purgatory, never fully understanding their moral failings, repeating the same mistakes again and again for all eternity.
Like Perky and dating.
Once you inventory your meat, lettuce, tomato, and shell quality, the real construction begins. Making your way to Taco Heaven is like a mechanical engineer building a bridge in your mouth. Measurements must be exact. Payloads are all about formulas and precision. One miscalculation and it all fails.
Taco Death is worse than Taco Purgatory, because the only reason for Taco Death is miscalculation.
And that’s all on you.
“Oh, God,” Fiona groans through a mouthful of abomination. “You’re doing it, aren’t you?”
“Doing what?” I ask primly, knowing damn well what she’s talking about.
“You treat eating tacos like you’re the star of some Mythbusters show.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Even if I do–and I am notconceding the point–it would be a worthwhile venture.”
“You are as weird about your tacos as Perky is about her coffee.”
“Take it back! I am not that weird.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
“This is why Perky and I swore we would never come here with you again.”
Fiona grabs my guacamole and smears the rounded scoop all over the outside of her soft taco.
I shriek.
“How can you do that?” I gasp, the murder of the perfect ratio a painful, almost palpable blow. The mashed avocado has a death rattle that rings in my ears.
Smug, tight lips give me a grimace. “See? A normal person would shout, ‘Hey! That’s mine!’ but you’re more offended that I’ve desecrated my inferior taco wrapping with the wrong amount of guac.”
“Because it’s wrong.”
“You should have gone to MIT, Mal. You need a job that involves nothing but pure math for the sake of calculating stupid shit no one else cares about.”
“So glad to know that a preschool teacher holds such high regard for math,” I snark back. And MIT didn’t give me the kind of merit aid package I got from Brown, I don’t add.
“Was that supposed to sting?”
She takes the rest of my guacamole, grabs a spoon, and starts eating it straight out of the little white paper scoop container thing.
“How can you do that? It’s like people who dip their french fries in mayonnaise.” I shudder, standing to get in line to buy more guac.
“I dip my french fries in mayo!”
“More evidence of your madness, Fi. Get help now. It may not be too late.” I stick my finger in her face. “And by the way, you and Perky talk about my taco habits behind my back? Some friends!” I hmph and turn toward the counter.”
― Fluffy
“You want antibiotic cream?”
He shakes his head. “I'm good.”
“The risk of infection from being hit with a ten-year-old statue is probably small.”
Squinting, he looks at me, hair disheveled, drops of blood on his collar. He’s never been more attractive. Maybe I was a vampire in another life.
Wait. That's not technically possible. Vampires are immortal, so how could I have been one in another life when they get one, eternal life?
Never mind. Will's staring at me staring at his collar. ”
― Fluffy
He shakes his head. “I'm good.”
“The risk of infection from being hit with a ten-year-old statue is probably small.”
Squinting, he looks at me, hair disheveled, drops of blood on his collar. He’s never been more attractive. Maybe I was a vampire in another life.
Wait. That's not technically possible. Vampires are immortal, so how could I have been one in another life when they get one, eternal life?
Never mind. Will's staring at me staring at his collar. ”
― Fluffy
“Speaking of enjoying self-abusive behaviors, are either of you actually going to our high school reunion? Ten years, can you believe it? I got invitations by email, Facebook messenger, a direct message on Twitter, another one on Instagram, and some kind of text alert I know I didn’t sign up for.” Perky’s casual drop of this question sets my skin to Creepy-Dude-in-Back-Alley mode.
“I’ve been ignoring them all for months,” I say brightly, plastering a smile on my face.
“I downloaded the app,” Fiona cheerfully says.
“Our high school reunion has an app?” I choke out. As my mouth takes in the yummy curry I’m finally eating, my mind tries to parse what Perky’s up to, and my body keeps hijacking my heart.
“Everyone has an app,” Perky says with a hand wave.
“I don’t have an app!” I protest.
“You can’t keep your smartphone charged above six percent at any given time, Mallory. You don’t deserve an app.”
“That’s not— ” Fiona shoves a piece of pakora in my mouth before I can finish.”
― Fluffy
“I’ve been ignoring them all for months,” I say brightly, plastering a smile on my face.
“I downloaded the app,” Fiona cheerfully says.
“Our high school reunion has an app?” I choke out. As my mouth takes in the yummy curry I’m finally eating, my mind tries to parse what Perky’s up to, and my body keeps hijacking my heart.
“Everyone has an app,” Perky says with a hand wave.
“I don’t have an app!” I protest.
“You can’t keep your smartphone charged above six percent at any given time, Mallory. You don’t deserve an app.”
“That’s not— ” Fiona shoves a piece of pakora in my mouth before I can finish.”
― Fluffy
“Mom, there’s a missionary at my door. I need to go talk to him, I lie.
Mormon?she asks. I have no idea why.
Does it matter? Gotta go.”
― Fluffy
Mormon?she asks. I have no idea why.
Does it matter? Gotta go.”
― Fluffy
“I can feel the essence of Will, the space inside myself I created fourteen years ago, a habitat deep in my core where he lives. Sounds creepy, right? Like I’m lowering a bucket full of lotion to him. But hey, it’s my imagination. My brain.
My heart.
And having grown-up Will make grown-up Mallory a job offer is the closest thing to teen Mallory being asked to the prom by teen Will.
It will have to do.
Yet–I know I can’t say yes.
My career isn’t the issue. Even my bank account, as starved and frail as it is, isn’t the issue. The issue is remarkably simple: I can’t take my personality and turn it back ten to fourteen years. Working for Will Lotham would do that to me.”
― Fluffy
My heart.
And having grown-up Will make grown-up Mallory a job offer is the closest thing to teen Mallory being asked to the prom by teen Will.
It will have to do.
Yet–I know I can’t say yes.
My career isn’t the issue. Even my bank account, as starved and frail as it is, isn’t the issue. The issue is remarkably simple: I can’t take my personality and turn it back ten to fourteen years. Working for Will Lotham would do that to me.”
― Fluffy
