Outside, mariachi music plays on some boom box, emanating along with the early afternoon warmth of a summer in Burbank. Must be Saturday. Those family lovin’ folk, treating each weekend day like it was a new vacation, never to return to the banalities of what the work week represented. I think, reminisce, I wish I had that. The knitted family. The carefree. The homemade cuisine I was forced out of long ago.
Grabbing the can opener from the drawer beside the sing, I plunge its metal teeth into the soft circular kidney bean frame. Maroon mush. And then tuna, packed below watery oil spotted film. With a dab of Dijon, I toss the vacuum-packed melange into a bowl and spoon complacent nourishment into my mouth.
The mariachi is still going and I take a swig of Stoli. Take with vodka, the label reads.