No One Mystifies Me Like You Do

A good Saturday. A sunny day. A walk around the neighborhood with P. All great things. And best of all, a trip back to Castro's in Clinton Hill. Our third trip to this sleeper of a hit Mexican brunch spot. At first thought mediocre, I found myself craving the food and needing to go back. This is a known phenomenon in the food world. A bit of a mystery but common. My first experience of it that I can recall was at our family's competition, a restaurant called El Azteca on State Street in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Still open by the way. My mom and dad's food was the best out there, truly. But here and there, I just got this deep desire to go to Azteca. Something about their food was very different. To me, not as good as El Charro but still incredible in ways I couldn't put into words.

I probably wouldn't have the nerve to go normally but my sister T would come by, pick me up, get me high and make it so darn easy to slip in there and just enjoy a huge combo plate. I can only recall the taste but not the sight. We may have partook in Margaritas as its all a bit fuzzy. I believe they used different cheese and their tortillas were possibly thicker. Whatever it was they did, I liked it a lot. Just like Castro's.

I love Brooklyn and its hands down a cooler place than Fort Wayne but for some reason I long to be back there in the life I possibly would have lived, had I stayed and not moved away 30 years ago. I had a great life but I didn't see it. My family was all there at that time. We had a family business that had I been more in tune with my love of food I could have kept going along with my sisters. What an amazing trip that could have been. I babysat my nieces and nephews, like a regular person. I had a car and friends and jobs and history. There is nothing just like that. The original.

But as I was reaching 21 the clock was ticking like a time bomb to get out of that place and see brilliant colors and people that didn't look like they walked straight out of the Republican Convention. But right along-side those people were also hippies and bikers and artists, beautiful neighborhoods and enough space to breathe. I sit now and wonder why I couldn't be satisfied with what I'd been given, which was a blessed life.

Recently I have a recent theme of living in the past going and am in a constant state of what if. I'm not sure why or if its unhealthy but it is where I'm at. Coincidentally my sister R is currently suffering a bout of this herself.

You can't go back. The past that could have happened but did not, is not a real place to return to, its non existent. They say its not good to have regrets or punish yourself for just trying to make a better life. Hell my mom seemed to want it for me, almost as if a piece of her was getting a chance to try for something more, like maybe she didn't do herself. I thought it was the exact right thing for me at that time.

I did some stuff and if I was in a different mood I could tell that story and it would seem wonderful but right now I am buried deep in the past glory that never was.

I blame everything lately on my horror moans as my sister R cleverly calls them. It must be chemical for all this melancholy to suddenly exist. Is it nonsense? Does it have any useful purpose? Is it just another way for me to find misery?