Chicken Mole. Beans. Cheese. Corn Salsa. Potato. Onions. Guac. Ranch.
These ingredients make up my burrito of choice from Big City Burrito, the iconic, border-line gross, burrito joint in my town. I’ve been getting the same thing for fifteen years. You know how everyone has their favorite greasy spoon restaurant that you went to in college, or maybe when you were growing up? If it was your turn to pick the restaurant for family night out, or teachers overheard you in the hall on your way off campus, all the adults would groan and hold their stomach. They simply couldn’t handle the combination of such complex grease in one place.
That is Big City Burrito. They wrap up delicious concoctions of meat and queso and literally use a caulking gun to squirt sour cream and guacamole onto your tortillas before wrapping your treat in foil and handing you your meal in a plastic bag. This place still has the ‘Phat Tuesday’ deal – a potato burrito and drink for less than five dollars. College kids flock to the place. Take that Subway.
I hadn’t ventured into the small storefront off of the smelly alleyway in a few years. So when I asked my brother to eat dinner with me this week, I knew this was the place we would have to dine. Could my over twenty five year old stomach handle the mixture of spice, sauce, and delicious grease?
My brother and I are three years apart. In the last few years we haven’t had the chance to spend as much time together as I would like. Becoming adults has been challenging, and learning how to invite my brother into my own journey, while he invites me into his hasn’t been perfect. We work at it, and we know we continue to love one another, but it is a goal of mine to be more intentional in spending time adventuring with him in our own little town.
As I walked up to the steamed windows and texted my brother to see if he had arrived before me, I was struck by a moment of pure happiness. I stepped in line behind a group of sweaty nineteen year old boys and my heart swarmed. I get to eat dinner with my brother! This is beautiful progress.
Eventually, he joined me, making his way through the crowd of hungry people. We got in line, ordered our food, and caught up as we pulled pieces of foil away to uncover our sloppy dinner. At one point in our conversation, I looked across the table into the restaurant, and I said, “I think we are the oldest people in here.” We groaned, and said we hoped our stomachs could handle it. Surrounded by college kids, stuck in a corner table with my husband and my brother, and three monstrous concoctions of Mexican food, I felt content. Spending time rebuilding relationship is a beautiful thing.