He does it.
But he does it because he misses those things which bring back to memory those very things which he is far from. I’ve always argued that there isn’t a most fervent nationalist than he or she who is an ex-pat.
So he sits there in the kitchen and makes food that he used to eat at home. ”It’s incredible”, he says, slurping and whiffing the warm beans, ”how these smells bring a comfort to this solace. At times it seems that I eat them only because I want home again” I don’t know what he did most, smell or eat, ”Qué ricos!” How delicious!, he said, looking satisfied.
I told to him that it was a lachrymose orgasm. Turning around, looking at my eyes, he said ” could be” lifting the plate from the tiled table, ”but its my only gate to the past”. The thing is that he does it so often, remembers. And its frecuency increases by the passing of the years. First it was the hot chile peppers, because he needed to prove that he was mexican. Then fashion brought ancient tortillas to this unholy part of the Roman Empire, then globalization stepped in. So know he buys those canned beans every now and then and engages in those memory rituals.
Like and Aztec sacrificing the present for the glory of the Gods of the past.