It’s not what you think. Not my gypsy wanderlust or my refusal to realize that geography is less my problem than the reality of my personality being located deep in the heart of F—ed Up Head Case Land.
No, the problem is that our choice of Northern California, land of the local, slow food movement, means there’s no crappy high fructose craving food for MILES. My favorite, a confection involving soft serve blended into a grittle-y ice granule and syrup concoction, is available 14 miles away, if I’m willing to drive into the center of the solar flare that is the east East Bay. My second favorite, an ice granule and syrup concoction (one more toothsome that then whirred popular stuff the consistency of cold mashed potatoes, and where, at least in my childhood, you could control your own application of syrup which unleashed possibilities of flavor mixing and sugar comas the likes of which thrilled a younger me), is nowhere nearby. I emailed the company, which is still in business 20 years after my last craving, to find out where they sell my sugary ice crystals. Two states over, it seems, is a safe bet…
So we have to move. Because mama needs a blue raspberry something, and I don’t want that ubiquitous air and mashed potato frozen nonsense from a convenience store.
What do you NEED from your childhood that is nowhere nearby? Wanna borrow my wayback machine when I’m done with it?