Fed

Two weeks ago when the Thursday night discussion folks decided to have a Mexican feast tonight, I said I'd bring the rice.

Recipes for Mexican rice were found and compared, and one was chosen. A happy late afternoon of chopping and measuring and stirring turned sour when the rice was inexplicably overdone on the bottom and underdone most everywhere else. And it was time to be there already.

Four Mexican restaurants between home and there -- I'll pop in one and get rice for 20 to go, I thought. But not on Cinco de Mayo. In the first one, cars were cruising the parking lot like a game of musical chairs.

Cranky-hungry and stressed, I called. "I'm on the way, but I ruined the rice. I have to stop and get some."

"Don't worry about it. Just come on," the friend at the other end said.

"Are you sure? Is there plenty of food?"

"Yes. Come on."

All of the Mexican places were full to bursting. I took her at her word and drove on by all of them and parked the car. I walked in late, empty-handed, sheepish.

•  •  •

Voices call out welcomes, someone jumps up from the table to hug me, a stranger shakes hands and introduces himself. I've brought nothing to the banquet, but a place at the table has been held for me. Before I know it, someone's fetched a drink for me, a plate of meat is offered, directions are given to the cheese dip (behind me) and the guacamole (in the next room). It matters not that I show up empty-handed. Everyone who crosses this threshold is fed.