When I was a kid, going to McDonald’s was a big deal. A special treat that happened once every couple of months.
When we did go, it was almost always on a Friday. My mother got paid on Fridays and would invariably be in a good mood. My sister and I, sitting in the backseat of the car, would spot the Golden Arches and start freaking out.
Though excited to be there, we couldn’t help but wish the trip would somehow be postponed. Our mother, who was still practically living in the pre-Vatican II world, wouldn’t allow us to eat meat on Fridays. We’d have to order Filet-O-Fishes instead.
I didn’t want a Filet-O-Fish. I wanted a hamburger.