This weekend, we took a couple of road trips, which meant that we spent a fair amount of time (nearly seven hours, all told probably) in the car driving through small town Minnesota. Even when I'm just going "out state" (Minnesotan for outside of the Twin Cities, equivalent of "up state" in New York), I feel like I've put on "outsider" or "travelers'" goggles just by stepping out of our normal routine. Apparently sometimes those goggles disrupt my husband's vision too.
As we drove through one town, he suddenly looked up from the road at a sign.
"Hey. Burger King as BK mini burgers, beef orkicks. What are beef orkicks?"
I looked at the sign: BK Mini burgers. Beef orchix.
"Beef or chicken."
"Oh!" Eric said. "I thought it was a cut of beef I had never heard of: beef orkicks."
"Sounds gross," I said. "Like something out of Oryx and Crake." And then we nerded out about Margaret Atwood's book, one of our favorites.
And then, a little silence as we drove past fields of corn and railroad tracks.
"Hey," Eric said. "Can we have beef orkicks for dinner tonight?"
No, Eric. No. We cannot have beef orkicks for dinner tonight. Or ever.