Quesadilla

I couldn't have known the weight of my decision at the time. Last weekend, at a diner in Westchester county, I decided on my usual diner fare: belgian waffle with strawberries and chocolate milkshake. The menu's suggestion of a 3 cheese quesadilla caught my eye, but I felt weird about ordering it because sometimes the thought of eating nothing but cheese, dressed in a wrap as it's excuse for being called a meal weirds me out. I figured I'd order it halfway through my waffle, once I had a chance to gauge how much room I had.
Alas, this diner was a unique variety. Once I had decided I needed that quesadilla, I was informed that the kitchen was closing. Closing! How could they? It was 2am and the place was bumping! But the diner had an established closing time, and the quesadilla slipped through my syrup-sticky fingers.
A week later and that controlled melt of cheddar, monterey jack and whatever else still pops into my head. Tonight I visited a restaurant with limited mexican food options, and ordered the closest thing to heaven I could: tostada. A poor little tortilla heaped with refried beans, a pinch of guacamole, and covered in a thick layer of melted cheese. Disgusting after a few bites. Perhaps it was actually bad, or maybe I hated it for what it wasn't. Quesadilla, I know you're out there. I'm going to find you.