He was a sweet, golden-haired boy, and his mother had kept him pure. Then I came along. I, with my worldly daughters. We, experienced in the ways of the flesh — the ground and re-formed, battered and deep fried avian flesh — gave a little boy his first bite ever of fast food. And not just any fast food. The worst of the worst. The iconic fast food. He was a McDonald’s virgin no more.
In a world where it is axiomatic that children love McDonald’s, my friend had managed to rear her son to the cusp of his third birthday without his ever having tasted the forbidden fare that beckons from under the Golden Arches, shining with grease and bedecked with Happy Meal toys. But we were in the car and I needed coffee, sick addict that I am, and to my knowledge McDonald’s has the best fast food coffee there is. So in we pulled into the drive-thru.
It wasn’t anywhere near meal time, so I thought I was safe, but alas, Cordelia and Theresa immediately started a chorus of, “We want nuggets!” Elizabeth, bless her, turns up her nose in disdain at this sort of food. She’ll eat Subway, but loathes any other fast food, which warms my heart. Portia has no teeth. But Cordelia and Tess have the McDonald’s monkey on their back, and they have it bad. Now, I fear, so does that sweet, once pure boy.
I hope someday my friend can forgive me.