I cope with sopapillas

A little bit more on my theory about cooking and why I've taken such a shine to it. It's a coping mechanism. Facing the prospect of moving to another country after graduation is daunting and confusing in so many ways it makes my head spin. The sheer complicatedness of the situation makes me want to breathe into a brown paper bag: work visas, international marriages, left-lane driving, and worst of all, a complete absence of Mexican food.
It starts with the Mexican food. I was enjoying my typical fare at my favorite restaurant, TaMolly's, wondering how all those poor lost souls outside of the land of Tex-Mex proper survive, when it occurred to me that I could one day, in theory, become one of those lost souls myself, wandering the moors or black streets at night with tattered clothes and the taste of boiled cabbage in my mouth. Shudder. This horrible realization was cemented during a month's stay in Ireland when I got a bit of a hankering for guacamole, chile con queso, tamales, corn chips, and Mexican rice. After a bit of investigation we learned that there was, indeed, a Mexican food restaurant in Dublin. You better believe we went that very afternoon. To the only Mexican restaurant, to my knowledge, in the Republic of Ireland.
It was that day that I realized the only way to get Mexican food into Ireland was to either make it myself or import a few Mexican cooks, which might prove to be challenging because they wisely stick to the hot and dry climates. Cooking has always been a way for immigrants to take a piece of home with them to their new surroundings, and why should I be any different? Why should those things be given up just because I've moved? When I start over, the coping process will begin in the kitchen. If I can master that, I can do anything. It's either that, or eat guacamole made in a blender that looks like split pea soup.