One of my favorite approaches in narratives is when two separate foundations are laid and then they eventually come together. For example, a character is introduced in the first chapter from one country and then another character from a different country is introduced in second one... rarely, indeed, does a story establish two separate viewpoints or sets of facts and then not bring them together. Part of the fun, for me as a reader, it trying to make the connection... how on Earth is the author going to make a schoolgirl from Kansas relevant to a little person from Oz? (OK. I made that up, but that's the way Baum should have started it off...)
I'm not a great writer, or even a particularly good one, but I can mimic that convention to a certain extent. So please indulge me...
I've lived in my own place for several months now. On a day-to-day basis I've got all of the essentials (a bed, kitty litter, porn--I mean Web access for educational purposes). My itty-bitty kitchen, in particular, has seemed to be in good shape. I can prepare a reasonable number of (simple) dishes for myself and I need only make the occasional supply run to QFC to restock the freezer/fridge/cupboards.
One of my favorite places to eat when I was in high school was Taco Bell. (I went for a smoother transition, but you can see that I'm transporting you, the (reluctant and probably annoyed) reader on a magical journey from my grimy and cat-hair-infested inner sanctum to a magical place that once offered pseudo-Mexican fare at 59/79/99 prices.) Along with Wendy's, my friends and I (all of whom are either dead, homeless, or signed up on MySpace) spent a LOT of time ordering from the Taco Bell menu. We learned some secrets along the way, including the secret behind the off-menu "Green Burrito". We also ordered a special little treat called a "Chilito", which consisted of chili, cheese, and a flour tortilla. As part of our eating festivities, we would hold the Chilito up to our cheeks, paying homage and taking advantage of the soft, warm exterior. (I don't think that we knew enough girls, in retrospect.)
My kitchen has plates. Silverware. A George Foreman grill. A few pots and pans. Magnetic chip bag clips. Spatulas. A dish drying rack. I thought it had just about everything... even a kitchen sink. (*wince*) But little did I know...
Some time in the 1990s, Taco Bell decided to start fucking with my mind. The 59/79/99 menu was scrapped, and some corporate egghead decided that the name "Chilito" wasn't working. It became the "Chili Cheese Burrito", which might be more descriptive, but it lacked ... something. I'm not sure what "it" is, but "Chilito" had it (in spades), and "Chili Cheese Burrito" didn't. It still treated us right every time, but something was afoot.
I have food in my kitchen, as one might guess. Hamburger buns and Donettes and about 30 packages of Lays Stax (it was all about the extreme use of "x" in the name of the product... "Lays Stacks" just doesn't appeal to me). I also have stuff that I bought when I FIRST moved in, but haven't eaten... a Duncan Hines boxed cake, some crackers, and (**dramatic music cue**) a big can of chili.
Sometime between when I went to college about 55 years ago and Memorial Day of this year, Taco Bell made a horrible decision. I was back in my old stomping grounds of Oregon City, visiting family and trying to recapture some of the glorious days and nights I spent as a Chilito-snuggling young man (glorious, I tell you!). I, naturally enough, stopped by Taco Bell and ordered a Chilito, which prompted a look of confusion from the 75 year-old worker. I kinda snickered knowingly and corrected myself by saying "Chili Cheese Burrito" and shaking my head at my brother, trying to communicate how much had changed.
The other day I was, for some bizarre reason, cleaning my kitchen. I think that it was immediately following a small stroke or something, because (a) I kept smelling cashews that I knew weren't there, and (b) cleaning my apartment is generally right below hanging my cats by their tails for 15 minute stretches in my list of priorities. But cleaning the kitchen I was, and I spotted the chili can. A few minutes later, as I was glancing in the fridge, I noticed that I had some cheese and some flour tortillas. I'd already eaten that day, but a seed had been planted.
After a beat of utter blankness, the septuagenarian behind the counter lit up with the spark of recognition. I think I could hear her jawbones creak as she smiled and see dust come from her sides as she slapped them (see... she's old... that's where I'm going with those jokes. Actually, she WAS old. I would be shocked if she's managed to live another 3 weeks since this story at her age). She exclaimed, to stunned silence from the 3 people (including my brother and his wife) waiting in line, "Why, we haven't had that in 10 years!" And as she pointed and laughed and taunted me for my ignorance in the ways of Taco Bell, I swore then and there that I would have a Chili Cheese Burrito... nay, a Chilito before next I slept. I swore a blood oath, with kin and strangers alike as bearing solemn witness.
But then I totally forgot about it, and a couple of days after I saw the three ingredients in my kitchen, I thought it might be a tasty thing to have for dinner.
Little did I know how the Fates would intervene...
Next time, on Ed O.'s blog:
Ed O. vs. The Can of Chili: Part II (You Have GOT To Be Fucking Kidding Me!)
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