Jesse Adair was nervous and rightly so. Not only was he leaving our Catholic high school campus during school hours, he had a handful of cash and was going to buy contraband. The risk was great.
Twenty minutes later, he came sneaking in the back door, and no teacher was the wiser. He had white paper bags in hand and he dealt them out to a small gaggle of us gym class boys. I opened my bag and there it was—long, cylindrical, and rolled to perfection. It had an exotic name, one I’d never heard before. It was called a “burrito.”
I still remember the day the first ever Mexican restaurant opened in my hometown of Jacksonville, Illinois. Mexican cuisine exploded with color and spice and a big pinch of panache—and we teens went bananas. Heck, it even had salsa.
The exotic fare scared our parents and that only made it taste better. One day, feeling adventurous, my older brother, Dave, brought tacos home for supper. My dad eyeballed one suspiciously, then took his first bite. The taco gods surely watched in amusement as the crispy shell shattered into a dozen pieces. “So, do you like it, Dad?” my brother asked. Dad’s verdict was short and sour. “I’m not a man who likes fighting his food.“
Just as Dad didn’t like fighting tacos, homeowners don’t like fighting pests. So, whatever’s making your world crumble—ants, spiders, rodents—call today and we’ll rush to your home like Jesse speeding to the taco shop. You can count on Home Defenders to deliver the goods.
Dad eventually came around and now enjoys Mexican food. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, Mom loved Mexican food from the get-go. After all, it had the one quality she’s always loved in a meal: somebody else made it.