I had an impromptu dinner date with my finicky princess the other day, before her softball practice, and I let her choose. She chose two drumsticks from Popeyes. This seemed like a swerve from the normal humdrumness of Megan's food choices. Bread, bagels, English muffins, rice, noodles. And it's white rice and plain noodles, by the way. So drumsticks? I was puzzled. But I remained silent, as I often do waiting to be hit between the eyes at the ease with which I'm manipulated. By women, especially. I was a little distracted because I love me some Lousiana cookin', also! I ordered green beans and slaw with strips and barbecue. And then we were unpacking our dinner and it all made sense. Sitting in Megan's food box was a beautiful biscuit, buttery golden and flaky, and delicious as hell. The 'delicious as hell' part is speculation, because I didn't feel like asking for a bite and skirmishing. We had a nice dinner and then an awesome softball practice.
It was great but Popeyes chicken did a number on the interior of my car. I know; letting the drive-thru detail slip renders the phrase 'dinner date' a goodly embellishment. Yes, Meg and I feasted in my car, not at a cloth-covered table, but it must've been fun because we apparently, happily, touched the dash and every single dial, button, and surface in the vehicle. We left a thousand greasy fingerprints on everything. Even the slowest cat from CSI could tell that two clumsy folks ate a shit-ton of dripping chicken and biscuits and fumbled for napkins in the glove box, fiddled with the AC, rolled down windows, and did some party-bumpin' DJ'ing. Hellz to the yeah! All the while eating Popeyes chicken. Case closed.
No comments:
Post a Comment