Today, facing a counter full of Sunday breakfast dishes and knowing I had some cooking ahead of me for the delicious Sunday dinner menu I planned, I did the unthinkable (for me). I suggested driving over to our local Taco Bell for lunch. In my neck of the woods, suburbia, the idea of going to a fast-food restaurant is a non-issue. In my case, I was listing justifications outloud in the car: we don’t eat out like EVER and we never do fast food… everyone is hungry and I have nothing readily available…we had a delicious healthy breakfast and a delicious healthy dinner is planned… My husband was laughing at me as we pulled into the parking lot. Fastfood is my stripclub. I feel dirty and naughty and I hope like hell no one sees me. Isn’t that ridiculous?? Where did that come from??
We were so out of place: I couldn’t focus on the menu. (Seriously. The colours, fonts, and pictures had me totally befuddled.) We ordered the most wholesome meals (because we all are pretty much vegetarian, we all had 7 layer burritos and shared an iced tea). We ate in. (NO ONE does this. They eat in their car or get take out.) And the final sign we were totally out of place: Emelia begins singing a song that is popular in our house these days – “Little Boxes” by Malvina Reynolds (1962). It is the epitome of an anti-suburb, anti-bourgois, anti-conformitist song. And we love it. So we sang “Little Boxes” and ate our seven layer burritos and then got back in our car and drove home. The End.
Here is cover of “Little Boxes” by The Decemberists.
