#bacalaitos

[oceanmojis]

remembered why we dont draw food emojis today, whoops

bacalaito, tteokbokki, and baked char siu bao

[wouldyoueatthisfood]

Would you eat this?

I would eat this

I would not eat this

I have eaten this (positive)

I have eaten this (negative)

Voting ended onDec 6, 2025

Food: Puerto Rican bacalaitos

Ingredients: cod fish, flour, baking powder, sazón (optional), garlic, water, cilantro, vegetable oil

[morethansalad]

Vegan Puerto Rican Bacalaitos ("Cod-Fish" Fritters)

[piononostalgia]

Bacalaítos Fritos

Vintage Winston ad from Puerto Rico

[eatgordaeat]

[aci25]

Hoy se comio bacalaitos.

[eatgordaeat]

[abigailspinach]

Anne was in the large, bright kitchen, working on dinner. Emilio recognized the smell instantly but it was a moment before he could put a name to it. When he did, he collapsed into a kitchen chair and moaned, “Díos mío, bacalaítos!”

Anne laughed. “And asopao. With tostones. And for dessert—”

“Forget the homework, dear lady. Run away with me,” Emilio pleaded.

“Tembleque!” she announced, triumphant, laughing but happy that she’d pleased a guest. “A Puerto Rican friend of mine helped with the menu. There’s a wonderful colmado on the west side. You can get yautía, batatas, yuca, amarillos—you name it.”

“You are probably unaware,” Emilio said, face sincere, eyes glowing, “that there was a seventeenth-century Puerto Rican heretic who claimed that Jesus used the smell of bacalaitos to raise Lazarus from the dead. The bishop had him burned at the stake, but they waited until after dinner and he died a happy man.” George, laughing, handed Sandoz and Anne frosty shallow-bowled glasses, froth floating on creamy liquid.

“Bacardi añejo,” Sandoz breathed, reverent. George raised his glass and they toasted Puerto Rico.

“So,” Anne said in a serious tone, delicate brows raised in polite interest, the soul of propriety but about to take a sip of her drink. “What’s celibacy like?”

“It’s a bitch,” Emilio said with prompt honesty, and Anne exploded. He handed her a napkin to wipe her nose and, without waiting for her to recover, stood and created an earnest face to address a phantom crowd at an old-time Twelve Step meeting. “Hello. My name is Emilio and though I can’t remember it, my unempowered inner child might have been a codependent sex addict, so I rely on abstinence and put my trust in a Higher Power. You’re dripping.”

“I am a highly skilled anatomist,” Anne declared with starchy dignity, dabbing at her blouse with the napkin, “and I can explain the exact mechanism by which one blows a drink out one’s nose.”

“Don’t call her bluff,” George warned him. “She can do it. Have you ever thought about a Twelve Step program for people who talk too much? You could call it On and On Anon.”

“Oh, God,” Anne groaned. “The old ones are the best ones.”

“Jokes or husbands?” Emilio asked innocently.

And so the evening went.