STEP 1.

1 lb. ground beef. I will only buy a certain grade and quality of ground beef: The label must read “on sale.”

Sweet onions and bell pepper, grated in your $39.99 food processor that you love so much because it goes “WHIRRRRRRR!”       

Brown above in a little olive oil and crushed garlic. Brown, brown, brown. Smells great.

Meanwhile, get out the food processor again. Grate a hunk o’ Mexican cheese—Queso Fresco. “WHIRRRRRRRR!” Damn, this is fun. Try not to eat all the grated Questo Fresco.

STEP 2.

Meanwhile, get out the special knife, the one Jim Bowie invented. (Okay, I made that up). But we got a set of knives from Elizabeth’s brother, Dana, for Christmas, and you could cut through an aircraft carrier deck with this particular knife. It’s a humdinger.

Now it’s time to chop chop chop! Red onion, carrots, red and yellow baby peppers, celery. While you’re chopping the celery, hum the tune from the Monkees’ song “Valleri,” because it sounds like “celery.”

Celler-y! I love my cell-ell-el-elery!

When I schmeer it with peanut butter it’s so good
Wouldn’t leave it outta taco salad even if I could
They call it cell-ell-el-elery!I love my cell-ell-el-elery!

STEP 3.

While the burger mix is cooling, provided it hasn’t blown up inside the fridge, it’s time to chop chop chop some more. Romaine lettuce. I do not use “iceberg” out of respect for the victims of Titanic.

Throw in some shredded red cabbage. Cherry tomatoes, because, let’s face it, they’re cute. They remind me of the Minions from Despicable Me.

Add a can of red kidney beans. I despise gall bladder beans.

Line up your bejarred ingredients: Salsa (chunky, if possible. I like Trader Joe’s Cowboy Caviar), pepperoncinis (Banana peppers. Whatever. My teaching friends Trevor Coville and Ryan Huss kept a jar always in the AGHS faculty room refrigerator, which also just might have contained a lunch that journalism teacher Carol Hirons brought to school in 1969. We all three believed that no sandwich was complete without banana peppers.)

Olives. I prefer Greek olives. After all, it was the Mexican-Irish actor Anthony Quinn was was Zorba.

STEP 4.

Arrange all the ingredients in a pleasantly symmetric manner in a large bowl. (“Pleasantly symmetric” can be suggested by either the black-and-gold crowd gathered for a Pittsburgh Steelers home game or by the cemetery in Stratford-Upon-Avon, England, where Shakespeare is not buried. He’s in the church, doubtless waiting for a decent taco salad.)

In the center of your vegetable conglomeration, after a short speech of welcome, place atop them the hamburger meat, ringed by queso, bombarded by banana peppers and Greek olives. I like to pretend I’m a crop-dusting biplane during this step.

FINAL STEPS.

Almost finally, glorp an ice-cream scoop of either sour cream or Greek yogurt into the middle. Drizzle, in a pleasant manner, a line of salsa along the length of the salad. Or the breadth. It’s really up to you.

Finally, it’s time for the chips. I only use an authentic Mexican tortilla chip; I think you can find them at local Mexican groceries. I believe they’re called “Doritos.”

Line the perimeter of the salad with “Doritos” as if they were English tombstones. Scatter the surface with some more. Eat the rest of the bag before your sons can find it.

Ta-daaa! Taco Salad!