As ironic as it is, being Mexican has made me fall into the stereotype of loving tacos. I mean, what is there not to love? Tacos remind me of the cold nights after family parties. We would go to the taco truck near the train station, Waiting right next to it, we would smell the meat cooking and the smell of fresh onions and radishes. They would serve them on a flimsy paper plate, with lemon and salsa on the side. We would stuff our faces while talking about the family drama; the sound of the train adding on to our conversations. Tacos remind me of my Mexican heritage and how rich our culture actually is.

She made it for me so many times in Mexico. When I bit into it I felt happy.

She made it with eggs from the chicks she raised herself. I was six when she bought the tiny chicks. When I returned they were full-grown hens. She added cilantro and tomatoes, which she bought in the farmer's market.

The omelet satisfies both hunger and the love of someone loving you.

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