This is what I want for lunch. Hot lentil soup and chewy, doughy, white flat bread from The Olive Vine in Brooklyn New York. I also want a salad, some hummus, and tabouleh. And Rachel. And an apartment in Brooklyn.

Challah!

One spring afternoon in 5th grade, I stumbled through one of many cold gray hallways in my suburban Maine middle school on my way to Home Economics class. We didn't learn a thing about economics, or how to run a home, but we did learn how to cook a bunch of random shit and on this particular day we were going to learn how to make "churros." I never forgot it.

Our teacher, a native Mainer, pronounced it CHUH-roe and I wondered if there should have been a rolling, purring, engine running sound somewhere in there, but what did I know? We made a lot of fried food in Home Ec.: Donut holes, french fries, fried chicken. Nothing I've ever dared to repeat considering I've never had an industrial friolator in any of my kitchens since 5th grade.

In any case, what we ate that afternoon, huddled around a tattered formica counter-top, bore little resemblance to the greasy, sugar-coated, ribbed-for-my-pleasure snack that I enjoyed this afternoon. (But I still loved it and have craved it ever since).

Today my craving was fulfilled when a plate of 9 hot churros came to my table along with three Mexican hot chocolates (thick, dark, and bitter hot) that also served as a perfect dipping sauce for the crispy sweet donut wands. P.S. I was with my mother and friend and did not order three hot chocolates although I certainly could have handled it.

The place, San Agustin Chocolates & Churros is also known for the fact that it is owned by former Mexican model and actress Maria Gralia, who sat regally in the corner of the joint, underneath dozens of posters that displayed her younger, tighter face. She stood periodically for a photo with eager Mexico City tourists. I thought she was Sharon Stone the whole time until my mother explained.

I couldn't stop snapping photos of my plate which may have offended her considering she was sitting just a few seats away. Oh well. A girl has priorities.

Thank the Lord above that my brother and his lovely Hungarian, Sweden-raised wife have, for the past three years, created a real Swedish smorgesbord at my mom's house- a buffet of Nordic goodies created to delight every cell in my food-loving-pleasure-seeking body.

It must be my Swedish blood that has me eating to pain. Going back for just a little more pickled herring... just one more slice of raisin bread with liver paté... just a few more chunks of cheese and perhaps some gravlox with dill, cold boiled potatoes and tangy sour cream.

Why can't every day be smorgesbord day?

You know how sometimes when you get a big plate of nachos, there are a few tortilla chips that soak up a bit of the salsa or cheese grease and they get a little soft but in a good, chewy, hot way? That's the essential bliss of a little mexican breakfast dish known as chilaquiles. Above, is a picture of my chilaquiles in salsa verde. Although I asked for them with chicken, they arrived without and let me tell you... I was just fine. Just fine.

Hand-made corn tortillas - thicker and softer than the ones we get in the good ol' U.S. of A absorb the salsa. A little cheese and crema on top... oh boy. You can also see a sweet little pile of refried black beans in the corner. Just a touch of shredded country cheese... not that you can taste it but doesn't it feel good to have a little shredded cheese on just about anything?

Yes. It does. It certainly does.

Sunday brunch at Local 188 - probably one of my favorite moments of the week. Especially when it includes bites of the above pictured pancake. Fluffy and tender with tart thin slices of apple floating around. Creamy goodness. Not too sweet. Makes me wanna sing, "Jeeeesus!" So I do.

It's February and that means it's time for my annual "run-away-from-Maine-and-go-to-New-York-to-be-with-soul-mate-friends-to-laugh-and-remember-that-even-though-I-am-crazy-and-miserable-it-will-all-be-over-soon" retreat.

The beauty of these trips is the simplicity. The tradition. The comfort of a city I love. And the pizza. The food is really what it's about. I assure you that my trips to the Big Apple are never about clubbing or site-seeing. It's just basically about... eating. And laughing. And drinking. Probably my favorite combo.

This particular photo is from a little spot called Two Boots in Park Slope Brooklyn. Two Boots has never done us wrong. Never. The music is always great. The wait staff cracks up with us and we generally slouch into the booths for a good couple hours of nonsense.

Ahh. I just took a deep breath. We are going to make it. With pizza... I know we can get through this.

So. Tonight, I simply have to complete my ode to foods-of-Barcelona-that-I-will-miss. I just had a 12:30 a.m. dinner of tuna salad and crackers, a not unusual meal for me in any city and I must say it's not half bad, especially when you have a few tiny kosher dills to throw in the mix.

But man... I would kick a nun in the neck to be sitting in front of a plate of salty fried fishlings from the coast of Spain.

The plate pictured above was from my first visit to Taller de Tapas when I was with my mom. As I wrote before, I returned to this spot a number of times but I could never remember which version of salty fried fishlings we originally ordered. I had them tiny and spiny and big and spiny, but never again found this plate. These fish were just right. They were meaty and clean and lightly fried on the outside, white on the inside. No bones to bother with. Just a squeeze of lemon.

You can also see the Pimientos de Padrón in the background of the other photo. Sigh. So good. So good. Also fried but not heavy. Salty and hot with the sweetness that comes from cooked green peppers. And then you get a surprise hot pepper and the spiciness is just enough to wake you up and remind you that you're eating the best fucking snack on the planet (with all due respect to Doritos).

The nuts are raw almonds. Very common in Barcelona. Smooth, skinless, crunchy and perfect with a glass of vino rosado. And salty. Sea salty. Big, white, substantial grains of natural sea salt. I swear, I can't go back to regular shaker salt. It's just not the same.

Man. I'm happy to be home. Really happy. And I don't need to go back to Spain any time soon. (Although I've heard that as far as Spanish food goes, Barcelona is not the place to go and if I had my way, I would do a long and easy eating tour of the villages of southern Spain as soon as possible. For now I have to wait). In any case, it's good to be back in Maine. Back in the good ol' U.S. of A. But this is the stuff that makes me think twice.

And you know what's the best part? None of this stuff can be reproduced in the States. Of course we try. But there is something about food when it's eaten in the place where it originated. It's just... right. It can't be reproduced. You can't transplant the fresh produce, the fire under the pan, the oil, the language in the kitchen. You can come close, but it's never quite the same. Have you ever tasted a Belgian Waffle in Belgium? Or a real tagine in Morocco? Have you ever had enchiladas in Mexico? Nothing like it, I tell you. Nothing like it.

I guess that's what makes it so special. You know you can't have it all the time... and you know it will be there when you go back.