It was a hot, humid, summer day in Las Vegas. I had just got home from an exasperatingly long day at summer school. As an eighteen year old, I ate an immense amount of food. So after I walk into my house I convey to my dad that we should whip up some tacos. Now considering I get my colossal appetite from my dad, I already knew the answer: “Sure that sounds like a great idea,” my dad vocalized. As we started up our stove and settled the pan on top of the flames, I darted over to the fridge and seized the beef that sat idle on the middle most shelf. I yanked open the package and lodged the beef onto the sizzling pan surface, the beef being heated by the inferno of the stove sounded like a thousand cobras hissing. The grease started to shoot out of the pan like a Roman catapult, which always seemed to have exemplary aim for hitting me consistently. Most of the time I would shield myself behind my dad letting him take the hits. Once the beef was moderately cooked I would fetch the seasoning from the top shelf in the kitchen. I use to dwell upon how I was never tall enough to reach the seasonings that rested on that shelf, even now I’m not very tall but because I can at least reach the shelf makes me feel towering. So I grabbed the seasoning and sprinkle it in to the pan, observing it as it descends and attaches itself to the beef. I blend and mix the seasoning with the beef to make sure all of the beef is coated with the seasoning. I anxiously stand by as I wait for the beef to be thoroughly cooked. The beef finally finished, I snatched the rest of the ingredients to create tacos, the hard and crunchy shells, the delectable shredded cheese, the scorching hot peppers, the cool vibrant green lettuce and the milky white sour cream. Just the thought of these tacos being prepared made my tongue tingle with enjoyment and my mouth water. Plopping the beef onto the shells made my glasses steam up from the searing heat irradiating off the su