Category error.

We got in to the airport in plenty of times, because like the rest of America, we were afraid of long ass TSA lines. Which fears, of course, proved to be unfounded. I don't want to brag, but you're looking at a TSA Pre holder here, who knows how that happened, but I am totally putting it down to unspecified character strengths. So we sailed through, leaving us plenty of time to do airport things, such as:

• Buying a Times (the Thursday edition is the best edition);
• Logging on to the wireless;
• Etc.

...and then realizing that it was elevenses, and therefore time for a snack.

"I don't want to eat a lot, but I need a snack," I declared. "Because I'm a little bit hungry."

"Well, it sounds like you'd better find something," said the historian.

I perused my options, which, as per usual, were thin. Dubious looking cookie at the coffee shop? Bagel? Bag of potato chips (a perennially trusted option)? Yogurt cups? With granola on top?

Well, I wandered past the airport Wendy's, the very same Wendy's that was once the site of a previous bad airport elevenses episode. Be that as may be: I saw a fancy picture of fries (where admittedly I have a weakness) with cheese on them, and also chopped peppers. Yes, America: I fell prey to a marketing strategy, in the form of fries. Ghost pepper fries.

I'm sure you can imagine that I thought I would be getting actual cheese, in its grated form, on my fries. But I watched as the behind-the-counter guy ladled the cheese sauce over the fries he'd harvested from the fry warmer, I thought, oh, right. Cheese SAUCE.

A SMALL DIGRESSION ON CHEESE SAUCE: There are people in my life who love what we call 'nacho cheese,' e.g. the Kraft product that is sold in jars to be heated and consumed with tortilla chips. See also: queso. I find this product repugnant. To me, this product bears the same relation to cheese that Pringles bear to actual potato chips, or that butter-flavored spray bears to actual butter, or any gross simulacrum to its legitimate forebear. However: there hath not been queso/nacho cheese/cheese product in my house for a long time. Maybe this is why, though I should have known better, I did not, and was led astray by the attractive picture of the grated cheese, aka the ghost pepper fries.

Did I eat the fries? Yes I did. Some of them. Some of them were not bad, or not fatally bad, anyway. In my defense, I was hungry. Okay, I know: that's not a real defense. 

Did the historian eat some? Yes, yes he did--in fact, he finished them up, when there was too much of the cheese sauce drowning the remaining few potatoes. Would I order them again? Jeez, I hope not. But the airport elevenses might be a felicity condition for bad snack choices, and that's the (possible) truth.

Ice cream and french fries.

I had a conversation with my daughter in Louisiana this afternoon. She recounted her Saturday, where the storms were raging and floods were rising--literal floods, this is not a metaphor--and at her place of business, the Saturday was unexpectedly and uncharacteristically busy. And even though she has been working out and eating mindfully, it had been a hard enough day that she decided she would get some ice cream. So she did, and she had had one spoonful before she got out of her car and, in so doing, the ice fell on the pavement. Like, splat. The kind of splat that makes you contemplate the meaning of things.

'So I guess that was the universe saying to me, don't eat that crap,' she concluded.

I think we had a brief moment there, out of respect for the fallen ice cream. And also for the lesson she drew.

Well, America: today the historian and I took one of our grandsons out for a birthday snack. He turned thirteen yesterday, which I think we can all agree is a momentous and historic birthday, one that deserves celebrating with whatever celebratory food the birthday boy designates. 

'Did you have cake last night?' I asked, as we sped toward our destination, the Iceberg Drive Inn, which specializes in burgers and shakes.

'No,' he said, 'I'm kind of taking a break from cake. We had ice cream sundaes. I've gotten tired of cake.'

TIRED OF CAKE? Oh jaded youth. Still, we were headed to the Iceberg for even more ice cream.

He got a cheeseburger and a butterscotch shake. The historian ordered a grilled cheese and some onion rings. I ordered a strawberry shake and fries.

Let me pause to note that one can get a regular size shake, or a mini. The difference in price is approximately sixty cents for your regular flavors--special flavors are extra. I thought to myself, mini? Will a mini be adequate? And also, Carter just got a regular. Do I want to go small? And if the difference in cost is so minuscule, maybe the difference in size is also minuscule. Regular isn't big. Regular is regular.  

And thus, I ordered the regular.

And also, so it came to pass that I ate ice cream and french fries at approximately four in the afternoon. The regular shake, it will not surprise you, was enormous. I shared my fries with great freedom and generosity. The historian had several bites of my shake. But I ate a good portion of it, because it tasted good, and also because there it was, being imposing and simultaneously frozen and potentially melt-y. 

'What would you think if I didn't take the rest of this with me?' I asked the brethren. 'I don't want to keep eating it, but if I take it with me I will.'

'My brothers would love to finish that for you,' said Carter. So we took it with us.

I admit it, I ate a few more bites whilst driving back home. But when we got there, I walked into the kitchen, and there was David, eating his after school snack.

'Do you like strawberry shakes?' I asked.

'I LOVE strawberry shakes,' he replied, fervently. And thus, the burden of the giant ('regular') ice cream was removed from me, and I just had to deal with digesting ice cream and french fries that I had eaten, in effect, as my dinner. 

I think what I am currently feeling is the universe's way of telling me: don't eat that crap. But also: happy birthday to Carter!

Happy birthday to this fine young man, a writer, filmmaker, wit, and a wonderful son, brother and grandson to boot. Birthday cheers to you, Carter--we love you!

A photo posted by Lisa Bickmore (@megastore) on Mar 14, 2016 at 10:39pm PDT