I don’t like beans. I don’t like the texture. Quite hard to enjoy. My family, on the other hand, loves beans. I’ve always been the odd one out in my family. And, that is totally fine with me. Is there any valid reason anyway to need to fit in? Not really. A group of similar people beung together day in and day out seems counterproductive to enjoy the silly of life. But I digress.
Back to beans. Ick. Why did I just do that? Seems rather maladaptive on my part to go back to talking about beans when I so dislike them. Well, my neighbor is apparently making beans. I went into the hallway and was swept up into this icky, fog of baked beans smell. Waves of the smell. I ran quickly away.
But nostalgia hit me back as well. I thought of mom and how much she loved beans. I thought of my aunt’s beans which are actually delicious. Well the sauce in which she makes them is delicious. While I hated the smell of my neighbor’s beans, I longed for the warmth of a dinner table filled with quirky family members.
See, I actually hadn’t digressed at the onset of this piece. The threads of thoughts and story are always there. Beans. Family. Love. Uniqueness. Belonging.
Although, I do want to tell my neighbor to stop cooking.