The following incident occurred in 1978 at Routt Catholic High in Jacksonville, Illinois. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Sean Flynn was nervous and rightly so. Not only was he leaving our school grounds—a crime punishable by detention under Sister Mercy’s stern gaze—he was also on a mission to buy contraband. He slipped out the weight room door as our band of gym class brothers wished him luck.
Twenty minutes later, a game of dodgeball providing noisy distraction, Sean slipped back in, goodies in tow. He handed me a package and the thing was beautiful—long, cylindrical, and rolled to perfection. It had a foreign name, one I’d never heard before. It was called a “burrito.”
I still remember when the first Mexican restaurant, El Gringo Loco, opened its doors in my mashed potatoes and gravy hometown. The spicy, exotic cuisine scared our parents—they only ate pot roast, you know—and that just made those enchiladas taste even better. How did I ever live without salsa?
One day, feeling adventurous, my brother Dave brought tacos home for dinner. My dad studied his suspiciously, then took a bite. The taco gods were surely hooting and hollering in delight as the crispy shell shattered into a dozen pieces. “So, Dad, do you like it?” Dave asked. Dad’s verdict was short and sour: “I don’t like fighting my food.“ Adios, tacos.
Just as Dad doesn’t like fighting food, homeowners don’t like fighting pests. Whatever’s making your world crumble—ants or spiders or rodents—call today and we’ll rush to your home like Sean speeding to El Gringo Loco. 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 loves most in a meal: somebody else made it.