Don’t you hate it when you sit down to make an accounting of your day, and you know you had a brilliant thought in the morning, perhaps something precious your daughter did, or the discovery of an ageless principle, but in your moment of necessity, all you can recall is that you had enchiladas for dinner? And they weren’t even good enchiladas. I can say that, because I made them. If Teresa made them, and they were terrible, I would take the secret with me to the grave. Provided I could bear the burden. Perhaps the terrible truth would slowly gnaw at my flesh like the picture of Dorian Gray, and I would be forced to exclaim, “Forgive me, dearest, but those enchiladas you made forty years ago were foul!” Thankfully, that’s not the case.