Freezing Taquitos – A Comprehensive Guide to Preserving Your Favorite Snack

What is something you want to “get off your chest”?

It was 10:14 AM when I’d gone downstairs, and I knew this because keeping track of the time was something I’d trained myself, very subconsciously, to do. The weather was partially cloudy, with some sun shining through, though the day wasn’t hot. I went down the stairs, to the left, into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. Inside, there was an unopened packet of microwavable taquitos.
That’s a lie- I went down the stairs, to the left, into the kitchen glanced to my right, saw my parents were there, balked, and opened the fridge. My dad sat on his chair, my mother by his arm. Both of their backs were turned toward me. Mabe today was okay. I tried to muffle my noises, sliding open the packaging, grabbing a plate-
“How long is that fucking noise gonna last?”
That was my dad. He hadn’t moved, but my mom had, twisting her body to glare at me. I grimaced. To anyone else, this would’ve sounded like an implied request at best, and a trivial annoyance at worst. I knew better. It was a warning.
“Sorry,” I said, and I put the food back.
Upstairs, I checked the stock I had left. A few handfuls of goldfish, and half a stale container of crackers I’d never touched since I left it open one night. I ate a handful-of the goldfish, not the crackers-sucking on each one individually in my mouth until they turned soggy, and I’d sucked the flavor and salt out. I had thirty-two. Sneaking into the backroom, I let the cold tap of the water jut out, and scooped handfuls of water into my mouth, each colder than the last, until my hands felt like they were gonna freeze.
I went back to my room.
The next time I considered making taquitos, it was 1:22 PM. Weather was the same. I was far hungrier by now, though I hadn’t touched my stash. It was the weekend, which meant I had to make it last 35 more hours. This time, I hadn’t checked any clock. I simply knew because my mom had texted me, and the time read by her text. “Did you ever eat?” she asked. “I’ll make you taquitos.”
Not for the first time today, I wished I was an outsider so I could take her gesture out of context. So kind, she sounded, and so genuine. It made my skin crawl. I didn’t want her food. I couldn’t accept it. I wouldn’t. I knew what Mom’s food entailed, and it was either jobs she wanted me to do, or it’d be fed with an underlying tone of disgust. “You’re really going to eat that whole apple?” she’d ask, “You’re looking a bit chubbier lately.”
That’s the way she spoke; fake questions, then fake statements. I knew I wasn’t looking chubbier. I’d lost 1.5 pounds this week (13 total, since they decided upon this new form of fun. I weigh about 160 pounds, give or take), and that meant I was skinnier. The chores were worse, though. They weren’t some outlandish, horrifying thing, but they were things. Telling me what to do, who to talk to, what to say. I think she’s a bit of a sadist, and enjoys forcing me to eat downstairs so she can tell me how terrible of a person I am.
Yesterday’s conversation burns in my mind. “How do you think of yourself? Because I see a liar and a cheat! You’re so selfish. What if your brother would want the Cheerios? How dare you sneak them upstairs.” I shudder, and don’t respond. She doesn’t ask again.
Damn, though, I’m so hungry. I last half an hour before I sneak downstairs again, double-checking my every move. Neither parent is down here now, and I make quick work of opening the box, before-
“Why are you eating? You said you’d clean my room.”
There she is. Fuck. Her hands are on her waist and she doesn’t glare-pout, more like. It’s a bit playful, but with something much colder crawling just beneath the surface. I feel heat rush to my cheeks, and I shove the box back in the fridge, closing it shut.
“Right,” I say.
She frowns.
“You know you can sit with me, right? Eating is necessary for-” she lets her eyes sweep over my body, glaring at my stomach, “-everyone.” She pokes it with her finger. “Even you.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say, and my voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word.
“Of course you’re not,” she says, without any question before.
I leave, and I go to my room and I cut my arms and imagine it’s her flabby, fatty skin. Then I go to the bathroom and wash the arm and my knife. Both are uncovered, but no one’s around to see. No one would care, I don’t think. I wash them off and drink a bit more water. It dribbles down my chin.
I go back in to my room and sit in my bed. My stomach hurts. It’s growling, a lot. I skipped lunch Friday-not a good idea. One of Mom’s passive aggressive comments got to me, I think. I think about that night. It was good. The folks were both out, and I’d made myself a real life burger, complete with cheese on the top, and I’d snuck it upstairs before they’d gotten home, opening the windows on both floors so they wouldn’t smell something wrong. Then they both went home and sat back at that damned seat. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen them out of it.
As cliche as it is, tears spring to my eyes, and I have to rub them off. I cry for a good long while, maybe five minutes. Silently, always silently. Then I get up and clean her room. (It isn’t “her room,” per se, but her and my father had divided up the house nice and good a couple years back, and it’s remained that way since. It’s true I had told her I’d clean it, so I knew which one she meant.) It was best known as the office, but it was just a desk with a bed. I think she slept there, some nights, but I didn’t know nor care.
I cleaned, tidied, et cetera. I let my mind wander, so I’m not all too aware of everything I did. I left. Sitting on my bed again (I might spend more time in my bed then Dad does on his chair), I thought about food again, because it’s hard not to when your stomach feels like a canyon. Suddenly, I remembered-I’d stolen a few candy canes from Dad a while back. Three. I’d never hidden them, they’d stayed in my jacket (I’d never stolen from his candy box, you never steal from his candy box. You stole from POTUS before you steal from his candy box), too afraid to acknowledge them. But now…
I dove into my laundry bucket, pulling out clothes before eventually coming across the jacket. I checked the pockets. Yes! They were still there! I pulled one out, the red and white standing in stark contrast with the blandness of my room. It was broken into three pieces, and I selected the smallest.
It didn’t taste good. I didn’t need it to. Taste was irrelevant. I’d much prefer protein-I always did, when hungry or stupid or tired. It’s amazing how much sugar can be pumped into the cheaper foods and how skinny one will still end up. I’m sick of sugar, have been for years. Seven Eleven was the only place I’d get my food, and the healthiest things they had were greasy hot dogs.
I was on the third piece when I heard a shuffling down the hall. That was definitely my mom, and I froze. Okay…she might just be…
I dunno. She never comes up, she sleeps downstairs and she’d never abandon Hubby Dearest in the light of day. I hear her knock on the door, and I throw my candy cane in the trash, burying it quickly at the bottom (a shame), before throwing open my door. There she was.
She held out a pen I’d never seen before. “You left this in the office,” she said.
“Okay,” I said. I took it.
“I hope you didn’t eat-it seems to me you decided not to eat until your work was done,” she said.
“I didn’t.”
“Good. By the way, your sisters are coming over tonight,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
“You need to clean up,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
“This counts as work,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
She winked at me, pocking my stomach again with a smile. “So, you’re not backing out? Putting off food can be a great motivator! If it helps, I can search your room. I know you tend to get confused sometimes, and if you want food you know it’s more rewarding if you work for it!”
“Please don’t,” I said.
Her grin grew wider. (She knew.)
“By the way, do you have something on your lips?”
I closed the door and pulled out my phone. Shit. Red. Not a lot, just on the corner of my mouth, but it was definitely there. I didn’t wipe it (what was the point?) but I let my fingers find their way into my hair and tug.
I didn’t know my sisters were coming. I wouldn’t have eaten if they did. They always brought food when they came and fed it to me, ignoring my mom (not my dad. They’d stop cold if it was my dad. It was okay, I understood). They even cooked with me, for hours, in the kitchen.
It’s because of that that I needed to clean, you see? Since they’d started giving me food, they’d become a “them” and not an “us.” On the outer circle now. Making me clean served two purposed; putting on a pretense, and punishing me.
So, I cleaned. I didn’t really mind, but it was always harder to concentrate on an empty stomach. Sometimes my brother helped me. He spent most of his time in his room. I think he sneaks out. The folks have never really cared, either because he’s their only son or because he used to be a by-product of his upbringing. I’m pretty sure Dad hit him, so he hit me. Sent me to the hospital once and he stopped, the softie. I don’t blame him, he’s a good person. It’s just kind of a shitty situation, yanno? I’m jealous of him though, he’s off to college next year which leaves me alone for three more before I can escape.
All of their peak torture comes ’round 8–10th grade, all of my siblings say. My brother describes it as a heat-zoning missile, which is accurate. We’ve all been threatened to be disowned, forced to do some physically uncomfortable shit for dad (nothing too bad for me, I just had to tweak his fucking nipples and watch him bathe. My brother got wrestled out of his clothes a couple times. Luckily, he only does this when we’re super young), all gotten slapped, all been denied food, the list goes on.
Point is, life’s shitty. Half of us have attempted suicide. I think I’d be able to articulate my point far better if I wasn’t so hungry. It’s nearly five o clock now, and my stomach rejects the thought of another candy cane. I’m waiting for my sisters to come. Just a few more hours, I think. I’m not sure I’ll see them til this morning, it’s best to avoid downstairs if I don’t want a beating from Mr. Candyman (pops).
Anyway, I was a lot more sullen when I started this. I wanted to yell, cry, scream, whatever. I’ve calmed down now, or I’m just too tired. I only have one last thing I want to say.
In four years, I’m going to go to college. It’ll be a large one, far away, and I’m going to study books and I’m going to learn so much more than whatever the Hell school thinks is necessary now. And I’m going to get a good job- I want to be a literature professor, but I doubt it’ll happen. Maybe something related? But I’m going to live in my own house, and I’m going to walk everywhere in it. I’m gonna decorate it with art, and I’m gonna play music, and I’m gonna have food in every room. I’m going to go out to a restaurant, and I’m going to use my own money and wear my own clothes and I’m gonna buy everything. I’m gonna have ice cream and chicken and pretzels and soda and bacon and I’m going to have a huge milkshake with whipped cream on it and every time I’m done but still hungry I’m going to ask for a refill and the waiter will smile and say yes and then she’ll leave me alone. And I’ll eat until the restaurant closes, and then I’m gonna ask for containers, and I’m going to take the food home and eat it all at home, noodles and hashbrowns and corn. And no one will be at home either, and I’ll eat all the food and then I’m gonna go to bed because I’ll be tired from eating so much, like the Ancient Egyptians after lunch.
And in the morning, I’ll eat breakfast.

FAQ

Can you freeze taquitos before cooking?

You can freeze taquitos both before and after cooking. If freezing before cooking, it is best to freeze them on a flat surface, like a baking sheet. Once they have frozen solid, they can be moved into a freezer bag for more convenient storage. If freezing after cooking, the taquitos should be sturdy enough to put directly into a freezer bag.

Can you freeze tacos?

To freeze: Taquitos make a great freezer meal. Make the filling as instructed and roll up in tortillas. Place in a freezer ziplock bag and freeze for up to 3 months. Remove from freezer and place them on a lined or greased baking sheet. Cover with tinfoil and bake at 350 degrees for about 20 minutes.

Can you substitute chicken for taquitos?

Chicken can be substituted for any meat you have on hand. To freeze, place baked taquitos on parchment lined sheet pan and place pan in freezer. Once frozen, remove and place taquitos in freezer bag for storage. To reheat, bake from frozen for 20-25 minutes in a 425°F oven. Baked Taquitos are the ultimate last minute weeknight meal.

Can You reheat taquitos?

You have two options to reheat. If you’re in a hurry, simply microwave the taquitos in small-ish batches (maybe up to 6 at once) for 2-4 minutes. Check them after two minutes and if they’re not done in the middle just add another minute until fully heated. The second option is to heat them in the oven.