Last Saturday, I made taco soup. Then on Tuesday, needing a quick and easy meal, I settled on tacos.
Wandering in after football practice, Elder leaned over the stove to identify dinner then straightened to frown at me. “Taco soup and tacos in the same week?” he questioned.
“Yeah, well,” I acknowledged, having expected his objection, “when I ask for suggestions for dinner, no one has anything to offer. So, you can keep it to yourself now.”
“But taco soup and tacos in the same week?” he grumbled, heading upstairs to take a shower.
And then on Wednesday, the very next night, I paused in the middle of preparing dinner — a pasta dish, for some apparent variety — to answer a phone call from Elder. “Hey, Mom,” he asked, “can I go with some of the guys to Taco Bell?”
Now, I’m not always the brightest crayon in the box, but I’m pretty sure that Taco Bell serves things like, well, like tacos.
Maybe it’s the paper wrapping that makes the difference.