All five of us are around the table. Bowls of fixings cover the space between our plates. Everyone is busy building their own creations. I sigh. On Taco Tuesdays, I experience something soulishly satisfying–like a thirst being quenched or a partial thing being made whole–and I think the root of it is that my children and I are eating, and enjoying, refried beans together.
A few minutes in, it came to light that Andy was disappointed by the flavor of the ground beef. “Oh, no, I like it—it’s just that I was expecting taco seasoning,” he said in addendum.
“I’m sorry,” I owned it, “I’m afraid my Texas pride gets in the way of me using packet-seasoning. But I can do it differently next time.”
Hudson interjected. “Ooh! Mom! I bet you know Rockwall Johnson! Right?!?”
“Who? I don’t think I do,” I replied, wondering where this was coming from.
“Yeah, you do! He was in the war—and everyone said they should retreat, but he…” He trailed off.
“Oh! Are you thinking of Stonewall Jackson?”
“Yeah!!!! That’s him!! See, Mom, you do know him.”
While I tried to remember where he would have heard civil war stories and marveled over his connection point, he squeezed his bean-filled tortilla and exclaimed, “Hey, Avery! Look at the diarrhea!!!”
this riven bloom 