Old Nights

There was a tradition locked in a dusty and dank tome, pilfered by ever-changing responsibilities and warped by the immobile pillars of change: a dinner made entirely from prepared foods brought home from a world-famous Mediterranean store a few blocks from my old school. Flaky, burn-your-tongue pockets filled with lush mushrooms and spinach; fresh tear-aways of mozzarella tickled with a thin layer of salt; electric and eclectic pickled garlic to throw next to anything, letting potent flavor seep into the plate itself. These foods were, for me, an icon of indulgence, of release on a Friday evening after tensely being whittled away for five days. They became Pavlov's bell, and the power of association lured me into the trap of trying to fit too many bits of filo dough in my mouth at once whenever my old roommate anxiety began to coil around my neck.

I switched schools. We had no need for afternoon excursions downtown. There was no Friday release, instead replaced with a fat social studies textbook that had gorged itself on the bits of my sanity and an orange notebook open to the exact middle. Until, tonight, I arrived home to a suave father smiling as he slid tinfoil boxes into the new fridge for later. I had no problems waiting, so long as I got my fair share.