The world is weeping and it is gorgeous. I wake early and immediately fling open all of the blinds in the downstairs windows. I love the cleansing isolation of rain—the way it wraps our homes and lives in grey and favors inner contemplation over external productivity. I am keenly aware of renewal’s cogs and wheels turning, in the green outside, in the boiling fervor of my oolong tea and in the sweet, honey-tasting pears that are plump and falling, finally, from the backyard tree.
As I sit here alone, inhaling the steam from my cup, I nurse a ravage hunger for a simple mulita from the truck that usually lingers blocks away on the road near Home Depot where the Mexican day laborers congregate hoping to find work. It, along with the four masa making mamacitas, have no doubt sought shelter for now, hiding away off the water-soaked streets that have been pummeled all night long. Yet I still crave the supremely simple Mexican sandwich consisting of two freshly grilled corn tortillas stuffed with oozing white queso fresco and nothing else. It is the chubby cousin of the quesadilla and wears no frills. It arrives hot on a disposable paper plate with a plastic fork and costs a few bucks. It sustains people deep into the night who are just getting off work, need to soak up too much booze, or crawl from their homes for cheap and convenient eats when too lazy to cook dinner at home. It is the perfect bite to dream about while enjoying the purifying aspects of the rain.
There is something pleasurable in this act—in this gratitude for a break in the hot weather, in being up before anyone else in solitude’s gauze of grey, in the smoky sips of fortifying tea, in the internal ache for a nurturing and stomach-warming mulita from those Mexican mothers who merrily bake and knead. The act of craving and wanting followed by the deprivation of the wish becomes its own kind of clarifying sustenance.