As well as a night of impatient rain. I was six blocks from
home when rain made an uninvited appearance. She crept at first, initially not
wanting to spoil the mood. But then, like a child with a story to tell, she
erupted, taking over the whole scene. I was a just under four blocks from home and woefully
underdressed. She wielded thunder and lighting, the highs and lows of her torrential
tantrum. I trudged on with Charles Bradley
howling through cheap headphones to hold the mood. Misery does love
company. But, as I entered the final block, dry thoughts began to pervade. Angered by
my optimism, rain threw down a calculated bolt. With
a sudden “POP” Charles Bradley was dead, everything went black, and rain was no
longer a concern.
In the distance I heard the cries of the lambulance. My eyes
fluttered open, greeted by a multitude of unfamiliar peepers. Disoriented and
disinterested, I opted to close my ‘lids tight once again, letting shock wrap
me in its pacifying arms.
I came to once again, this time to familiar faces. The hospital
room was barely discernible through a sea of friends and family. The room stank
of worry.
Dr. Rumack
entered, ushering anyone not bearing the Mustard name out of the room. We
exchanged pleasantries and secret doctoral handshakes before he dove into the
diagnosis. His bluntness was appreciated. He didn’t sugar coat it… He didn’t
even bacon wrap it. The lightening had struck a frayed wire on my headphones, sending
half a billion volts of electricity up both the right and left side and straight into my brainium. The shock, he explained to me, left me physically unchanged but with
a messy mental mix up. Wires had been crossed; connections had been crissed.
Days later I was discharged, returning to the kitchen in
hopes of eating away the stress and worry that was eating away at me. As I
gathered ingredients I began realize the extinct of my mental muddle. My left
and right brain were locked in battle, one side demanding Mexican, the other
Greek.
In the end, I let instincts take over. I summoned Tzatziki, chorizo, feta,
carne asada, pita and jalapenos. They entered with apprehension. Introductions were doled out, and cautious hand shakes were exchanged but to no avail. The sides remained divided, like a fraction. I carried on with my mad plot, insensitive to the participants preferences. The kitchen was a battlefield, strewn about were wounded presumptions and dying conventions. My twisted brain birthed a culinary contradiction like the world had never seen. I give to you the Greekadilla.
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