I had my Big Mac today at 2 pm, alone, in a small town McDonald’s. It was delicious, as anticipated. After the first bite, I didn’t put it down or come up for air until it was gone. Less than two minutes, start to finish. What an amazing concoction of salt and fat. Those 1000 calories will be all I’ll eat today besides the oatmeal I had for breakfast.
My first Big Mac? I was 13. My sister asked my best friend to get me out of the house so she and Mom could get set for my first-ever surprise birthday party. Friend took me to church and then to McDonald’s. Yes, I thought it was odd, but she was a good friend and if she wanted me to go to these two strange venues on my birthday, I wouldn’t deny her. As far as I knew, everyone else had forgotten my birthday and I had nothing better to do.
I survived mass. Just sit still and breathe, right? I could handle that. But I didn’t really like McDonald’s so much. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries and good friend insisted I would like McD’s much better if I had a Big Mac instead of the little cheeseburger. Susceptible to suggestions, like any underdeveloped pre-teenager, I took the advice.
‘Twas love at first bite. No doubt about it. Just like when Mike took me out on our first date on a Friday the 13th, decades and decades ago… (No, he’s not a vampire. No biting. It’s an analogy, people.)
So, although I do love elevens, thirteens are a close second.