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By David A. Graham, Atlantic magazine staff writer:

Today, speaking about investigations into the January 6 insurrection, Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene, a Georgia Republican, referred to “Nancy Pelosi’s gazpacho police.”

Greene said: “Not only do we have the D.C. jail, which is the D.C. gulag, but now we have Nancy Pelosi’s Gazpacho policy spying on members of Congress, spying on the legislative work that we do, spying on our staff, and spying on American citizens that want to talk to their representatives. This government has turned into something that it was never meant to be, and it is time to make it end.”

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The knock at the door caught me with the spoon still in my mouth, and I felt a chill run down my spine—though I couldn’t quite tell whether that was my nerves or the tart slurp I’d just taken.

“Who is it?” I called, swallowing hard. Just the right texture, I thought: a little chunky, a little creamy. If we could make it to market, we’d make a killing, one bowl at a time. But suddenly that was a big “if.”

“OPEN UP! GAZPACHO POLICE!”

Trying not to panic, I glanced around the place and knew we’d have to act fast. When you’re in this line of work, you always know there’s danger, but it’s easy to think that happens to other guys, the ones who are less careful. And besides, for hardened products of the calle like me, the thrill of illicit Spanish cuisine is too strong to resist.

“The cucumbers!” I hissed at Mac.

He was in the kitchen, absentmindedly dicing an onion for the next batch. It was after 10 a.m., so I knew he’d already had a few glasses of cheap Duero vino tinto. That must be how he missed the banging on the door.

“The cukes, you idiot! Make ’em disappear! The cops are here!”

His eyes grew wide, though maybe it was just the wine. He started shoving the vegetables down the disposal. I knew the officers might hear the grinding, but we had no choice. I stalled for time, telling the voice at the door I was on my way. Maybe we’d get away with it yet.

I gingerly cracked the door. “What’s the problem, ma’am? You got a warran—” But before the words were out, Sergeant Pelosi, the toughest cop on the beat, had barged past me.

“Got any cold soups in here, kid?”

“Of course not, officer,” I said. “Only broths and stews.” The lie came out cool and smooth, just like the recipe called for.

“You sure about that? Let’s take a look.”

“Th-there’s some chicken stock in the fridge, ma’am, but it’s for reheating.”

She scowled and stalked into the kitchen. In an instant, I knew I was toast, just like the croutons we’d been prepping to top the soup. Right there on the counter sat the Cuisinart, little bits of pureed tomato dripping down the sides. The spatula was still wet, its edge stained red. I knew our punishment would be swift and harsh: It was hard time in the goulash for me.

“𝘚𝘰, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋.𝘊. 𝘫𝘢𝘪𝘭, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋.𝘊. 𝘨𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘕𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘗𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪’𝘴 𝘎𝘢𝘻𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘗𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦.” --Representative Margorie Taylor Greene.

“𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵! 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘵, ‘𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘕𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘗𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪’𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵! 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘱 𝘕𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘴 𝘚𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 [𝘢𝘨𝘰]. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘻𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘗𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩, 𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭!” --Jimmy Kimmel