Local Woman Full of Thanks, Burritos

The grains of rice clung together for support, piled high on the hard white ceramic, forming canyons and mountains across the vast landscape of my plate. A lone scallion was perched high atop the rice summit, facing toward the twin peak in the distance, perhaps counting its rations, resting for only a minute before making its slow decent. What was it doing without any fellow climbers? I thought to myself. Everybody knows you should never climb alone. I imagined other scallions, belaying each other up the steep face, a Sherpa carrying their gear and following cautiously behind.

I looked up from my plate to the brightly colored walls of the Mexican restaurant. The place was packed with people, laughing amongst friends, sharing stories of the week, plans for the holidays. The servers bustled around the room, barely squeezing between the chairs, not spilling a drop of tequila as they passed. I imagined the waiters as little beans, mashed into the crowds of people, melting together into a giant burrito.

¿Quién tiene hambre?

The ground beneath my feet became soft and rubbery, granules of rice sticking to my chair. The walls curved softly towards our table. I pressed hesitantly at the thin tortilla, verifying its authenticity. I looked down at my chair, a giant green chili, my eyes stinging from the fumes. Slowly around us cheese began to ooze into every crevasse, quieting our conversations, squeezing the final breathes from our delicate lungs.

“Callie, do you want another Margarita?”

The burrito room quickly melted away, leaving nothing but concrete walls and terra cotta floors remaining. I looked up at my husband’s silly grin.

“I think I have had enough”, I said, perhaps too loudly.

Our table brimmed with exciting stories and laughter as our guests discussed the day’s events. They had driven up to Milwaukee from Lake Geneva for a day of riding, and happily quibbled over when they would return again. Soon the discussion turned to Thanksgiving, and we shared our excitement over which family members we were anxious to see, and our stresses over those we weren’t. Hours later, stuffed from the carb-laced meal we had just consumed, and high on each other’s company, we piled in our car and headed back home.

But as we drove through the city, my mind was still entangled with the fastly approaching holiday, and I thought about my family, and about our ritual. Every year on Thanksgiving, before we touch our food, we grasp hands. For a few moments, eyes closed, I hold on tightly to those hands, noticing how much softer one has gotten, how the other has aged. I open my eye a crack. Others are thinking the same.

Slowly we each take turns expressing our thanks for that year, reflecting on its trials, on Tim’s escapades at school, on embarrassing stories (usually involving dad). Once full circle, only then do we begin to pass the dishes, poignancy hanging in the room as thick as the fragrance of the bird.

I barely notice as we arrive home, stretching out my hand to our guests as they say their goodbyes. We climb into bed, and I stare wide-eyed at the ceiling. Mind racing, I start to piece together what I will say come Thursday. Should it be affectionate? Humorous? Should I discuss the heartaches? The blessings? Ideas fill my head, clogging it with anticipation, and I allow it to drain for a few moments before pondering more. Sharp pains emanate from my stomach, undoubtedly due to the burrito I had consumed earlier, desperately trying to get out. As I grow sleepier, visions of my family are intermingled with Mexican foods, forming horrific collages in my mind.

The year passes before my eyes in quick bursts. I think about the symbolism of the burrito, how its ingredients melt together in unity, just as our family, full of different flavors, comes together. Each piece is critical to its structure, each component offering its own unique service. As the visions flash through my mind, the pain in my stomach grows stronger, and I worry I will not make it through the night.

I wonder what would happen if I was to die in my sleep, due to a stomach ulcer or stroke. I think about what family would say, about how they would remember me. I think about the headline in the paper.

“Local Women Full of Thanks, Burritos,” it would read.

Members of the community would open the Journal-Sentinel to see my picture, clutching their cheats as they whisper their condolences to my family. A grave police officer, assigned with the unfortunate task of informing the family, would slowly walk up the steps to the front door of my parent’s house, practicing what he will say to my frantic mother. As he knocks, the door would slowly creak open, revealing an empty room, void of furniture, void of books, void of art.

Confused, the officer would step into the room, staring in amazement. Then he would see it, one solitary item lying in the middle of the floor. He would crouch down to the ground, touching it to verify it is indeed real, scratching his head in amazement, looking around to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

But there it would be, plain as day, staring solemnly back at him. One lone burrito. Bean, I believe.

[callie].