I’ve been looking for grants all day. All day. One site says it wants to fund human rights projects for Bangladeshi women. Another wants to dig wells. Another is dedicating all it’s funds to democracy initiatives in struggling republics. Fantastic. But what I need is somebody who’d like to help a bunch of old ladies in a village refurbish an old house and make it into a cultural center/tourist opportunity for interested travelers. And I’m finding zilch.
So after a few hours, I got hungry, looked around for my lunch buddies and found out that I’d have to wait another couple of hours until we’d all eat together. Tick, tock, tick, tock, stomach grumble. And then when my lunch buds do show up there’s a fifteen minute conversation in which we mull over the same uninspiring old lunch choices: fried potatoes, bread and cheese, scrambled eggs, eggs with beans, mashed potatoes, cheese and bread. With sauce.
Frustrated over the grant search and the lack of lunch options suited to my Texas pallet, I snapped. When Guyane inquired about my lunch preference, “Lav, Brent, inch es uzum?” the tension finally wrenched tight enough to send a slight fizzure through my sanity.
“What do I want?” I bit back. “A bean burrito!”
“What?” Guyane said.
“Look.” Sitting in front of my computer I immediately Googled up this image:
Guyane and Arpine give me a quizzical look.
“I’m losing it,” I say, but continue the Google image search. “Look! … I used to work here,” I tell them in a flurry. “Oh man oh man oh man oh man.”
“Doesn’t it look wonderful!?” I gawk at the screen.
“What is it?” Guyane asks.
“Vay, Brent!” Aprine exclaims. She knows I’m on the brink.
“It’s a Sharky’s Burrito!” I exclaim. “I used to work here. I ate it every day, but different.” I close my eyes, and my hand reaches for an asbsent spoon full of imaginary black beans. “A kid’s veggie. Black beans. A little bit of rice. A smidge of,” I run my fingers, imagine the feeling of those old latex gloves, squishing, “potatoes. If the boss isn’t looking, a scoop of queso. Both cheeses. Pico. A little lettuce. One slice of Jalepeno; I like the suprise. Spicy ranch. AND A LINE OF ROASTED SALSA! OOOOOH!”
“Ay Brent, chunenk.”
“And the next morning,” my fingers move with enormous speed and dexterity, typing in the search box, devouring the images on Google with voracity, ” it would be two carne guisada burritos and a bean and cheese at La Pop’.
“For lunch, Taco Bueno. Mexi Dips and Chips and a Beef MUCHACO!”
“Brent,” Guyane says, “What is ‘muchaco’?”
“It’s fast food. Tex-Mex. DELICIOUSNESS!”
“Ok, so maybe you like beans,” she says.
“Absolutely, I do.” I am still madly image searching.
“Maybe we can have lobiyov tsvadzegh (green beans and scrambled eggs)?”
“Oh… ok,” I whimper. “But oh my lord, LOOK! Can’t we just have my mom’s roast and potatoes!? Or spaghetti and meatballs!”
I have to dig through my own files for this one. “Don’t worry, it’s only green for halloween!!!”
“How about pizzza?” Guyane asks. “Alvart jan, pizzan unen khanutum? Inch chargi? … Yerek hat kberes?” And they leave me to my slobbering, my gastropornographic wanderings over every possible thing I’d eat right now.
“Oh pizza sub. Oh chips and dips. Oh chips and SALSA! Tostadas… Little Caesars… Hot’N’Ready….
“Oh. My. Gosh.” My fingers go absolutely nuts.
“CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I still have 21 months to go. I think I’m in trouble.