“Which royal are we visiting today, the king, the queen, or the whole kingdom?” That was the playful way my friends and I, back in middle school, would decide between Burger King, Dairy Queen, or McDonald’s. These outings were a special treat, a reward after a long soccer practice or a morning spent sifting through dusty library archives for our first research papers. Seriously, who can resist a fast-food break after staring at microfiche?
Want a pro tip for enjoying a chocolate-dipped cone without ice cream dripping down your fingers? Poke a dime-sized hole in the chocolate shell and drink that ice cream like a milkshake. Bonus points if you can navigate the cone to the end without losing any of the shell. It’s basically Jenga, but with dessert!
Fast food has always been a rare delight, a break from our usual home-cooked meals. In my family, we had enough spaghetti, casseroles, and vegetable soups to last a lifetime. Pyrex dishes were practically my mother’s best friend. But every now and then, I hit the jackpot with a flame-broiled burger and crispy fries. I may have gone a little overboard during the height of McDonald’s Monopoly game. Did you know you could snag a free small fry or drink with every hash brown? It felt like winning the lottery!
Though our visits to fast-food joints were infrequent—akin to spotting a four-leaf clover—my grandparents’ visits brought a constant influx of indulgent treats. When they arrived for a summer stay, it usually meant my parents were off on an adventure, leaving me with glorious freedom.
I would sit on the front steps, eagerly waiting for their old gold Chevy pickup to glide down the driveway. My grandpa would emerge in his well-loved jeans and plaid shirt, while Grandma would sport her pastel pants, which might have been capris or an accidental hem job. I was at the truck before the engine even stopped running.
With my parents away, it was Burger King every night without a hint of shame. We always ordered the same thing—a Whopper for Grandma and chicken tenders with sweet and sour sauce for me. We’d share a heap of fries, slipping into our cozy booth to unwrap our treasures. I often thought these fast-food dinners were a special treat for her as well.
This was a woman who had a cellar back in Oklahoma filled with jars of okra, tomatoes, and beans from her own garden. She was a master at dredging the catfish my grandpa caught, using her secret blend of flour and cornmeal. Most of her kitchen creations came from her own hands, not a production line.
Yet there we were, cozily sipping Cokes and munching on food that could probably survive the apocalypse. During those dinners, I’d share stories about school—who was kind during recess and who wasn’t. I’d talk about my creek fishing escapades and the nightmares that occasionally haunted me. She’d listen, nodding and holding my hand on the way back to the truck, despite me being too old for such gestures.
Perhaps it was her experiences during the Depression that made her appreciate a good deal, which is why she took me out for these meals when she couldn’t cook. Maybe she was also looking for a little escape from her home kitchen. Our fast-food adventures provided a break from the mundane. We didn’t fret about saturated fats or sodium; we simply enjoyed our meals and the time spent together.
I recognize the importance of healthy eating, and we do prioritize it at home. Yet, my twins tasted their first hot dog at a Sonic drive-in, with the van doors flung open to the refreshing summer breeze. You should have seen their faces when the carhop glided up on skates! Meanwhile, my eldest son, who has special needs, savored his first French fry at McDonald’s. I appreciate farm-fresh meals and home-cooked dishes, but there’s undeniable joy in those deep-fried delights too.
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In summary, fast food moments with family can create lasting memories, and while healthy choices are essential, sometimes it’s the indulgences that bring us closer together.