In a week and a bit, I go back to Texas for the third time since 2021. It always feels like a hundred years since I've been home, and I'm still not used to the idea that I'm not there. There are things much more important than food, obviously. I get to see my parents and I get to spend some time with my oldest friend whom I haven't really seen in about two years. There's also the warmth of the sun, which I never properly appreciated. My bones have been cold for a minute. There are a million things I miss, and another million I'll remember I miss when I get there. That said, I am and always have been a very stomach-forward person (and not just literally). The most intense memories I have of places revolve around food, which I think is probably common but also can't help but be self-conscious about. New Orleans? I remember Coop's fried chicken. Baltimore? I remember boiled crab and clarified butter. Fredericksburg? I remember the sausages. I love sausage. Honolulu? I remember the bag of fried fish bones at Ahi Assassins. Vegas? Depends on when. I remember the opulent-but-cheap buffets of old. More recently, I remember drunkenly scarfing a Dirt Dog outside of Bally's. Aurora? That perfect Greek statue of a club sandwich at Sam's #3. I spent so long in San Antonio that I could never list all the flavors that make me think of home. Mom's blackberry cobbler, Dad's bolognese. The disc of perfection that is a Whataburger. Proper flour tortillas. A rainbow of breakfast tacos, all so similar but so very different from each other. Snapper throats at Southerleigh. That tuna tostada at Fruteria. The long-lost Bambino Huey. A margarita, with a beer dumped in it. There is nothing more refreshing. What was I talking about?