At some point this week I’ll write about Pentecost and about Graduation, but for now, here’s my rueful, amusing story of the week.
Carl’s Jr. It’s a dangerous, dangerous place.
Almost 7 years ago, Computerguy and I got married up the hill, had an afternoon hors d’oeuvres reception, drove down the hill, stopped at his house to pack, and headed to The Mission Inn for the first night of our honeymoon. It was getting late and we were starving, so we discussed our options and then drove through Carl’s Jr. for Western Bacon Cheeseburgers. It set a precedent.
For those who don’t know (vegetarians may wish to stop reading), it’s as good as a fast food burger gets with onion rings underneath, cheese and bacon on top, and barbecue sauce all over. I’d choose it over In ‘n’ Out if forced to pick (Don’t get me wrong–I like In ‘n’ Out, it’s a whole other burger; I’m just saying… In a world with just one, give me my Western Bacon.)
Yesterday I drove home alone from Arizona after dropping the kids off with my folks (They’ll bring them back Monday.) I was gone Thursday night and Friday morning. I was telling CG about my lunch:
Bookgirl: You know, Carl’s Jr. has a perfectly good barbecue chicken sandwich. I actually really like it. It’s texture is good (texture is a big deal for me; I can’t do reconstituted chicken); it’s charbroiled; the sauce is great. So why is it that I pull up to that window and the only thing that I can say is Western Bacon Cheeseburger?
Computerguy: I can beat that. We went to Carl’s for lunch on Thursday, and had a coupon for 2 Western Bacon Cheeseburgers for $4. I had one for lunch and one for dinner.
Yep. It’s that good. And that bad. It’s good I rarely do fast food, though if I did it more often, I think–hope–I would be able to vary my order.