When I was little, I lived in Dallas but had big dreams of living in New York City someday (too much Woody Allen and From The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, I reckon), and my young parents indulged my non-Texan tastes. So, for instance, when the weather was warm and we wanted something sweet and cool, instead of going to local favorite Brahm's we went to the Haagen Dazs shop. So chic! But when I was nine we moved to Houston, and on my first day of fourth grade at a new school in a suburb that bordered the sticks (KIKK Country was the number-one radio station and nine year old boys were already dipping Skoal) my so-called fancy pants preferences just didn't fly. When we kids sat around in a circle and as a means of introduction said what our favorite ice cream was (because, you know, you are defined by what ice cream you favor), when I said Haagen Dazs Coffee, I was shunned until fifth grade.
Read more »
Comments
Post a Comment