I just left Taco Tuesday. Early Tuesday evening, it’s the place to be. At least that’s what it looks like. I’m not sure how many tacos that place puts out in the hours between five and seven o’clock on Tuesday nights, but it’s a lot.
Taco Tuesday is a popular event. It’s cheap. It’s fast. Furthermore, it fits into the diet of everyone from about eighteen-months to eighty-five-year-olds. No plates, very little use of utensils, and then only if you want something more expensive that needs to be divided or forked a bit. Clean-up is a folded over placemat and a quick trip to the trash container.
Depending on your timing, your Taco Tuesday friends are usually there. You may not know their names or where they live, but you know the little old man who brings in his girlfriend for a taco and a Dr. Pepper every Tuesday night at five-thirty. He orders two and she gets one. He sits facing her and they pray quietly before their meal. Most of the time, he has something to say about the weather, and she smiles at the babies nearby.
Some extended families line up their tables and have a wonderful time sharing the latest news and telling jokes. They may not know anyone else in the group, but on Tuesday, they enjoy a little hamburger meat, cheese, and broken taco shells. (Now, admit it. The taco shells always break and require quite a bit of dexterity to eat with your head turned sideways and the grease running down your elbow.) Difficult, but not impossible … and everyone is making the same mess.
Tonight, was different. At first it looked like one lone mother had arrived with five small children. She was trying to get them in the door, take them by the bathroom to wash hands and change diapers, and herd them out of the way. You see, more mothers and some fathers were coming in with an inordinate number of very small children.
Into the midst came lone fathers looking for misplaced mothers. Late-arriving grandparents arrived with infants in carriers, dodging the door which kept flying open in the wind. We, regulars, sat in awe at the close-order drills taking place near the counter. I couldn’t determine who were the parents of which children, but somehow before long, children filled the booths, four and five to a bench … they were little kids. And … each one had something to eat and drink.
During basketball season, the seats are filled with teenagers on the way to ballgames or school activities. Out-of-town team fans, come in dressed in their school colors. We, home-town old folk, welcome them and make small talk amid the rush to get to the game. But, tonight there were no children over the age of five, and no parents over the age of thirty. Something was going on.
I couldn’t help myself. As I got up to leave, I stopped at one table where a mother was sharing her burrito with her six-month-old baby and asked, “Is this a meeting of Planned Parenthood?” They laughed. “Obviously, not,” one woman answered as she propped one little one on the bench across the aisle with her foot.
As it turned out, this was a soccer practice night. Little kid soccer. I’m not sure any of the four- and five-year-olds had any idea about the rules of play. They did know about Taco Tuesday and were thrilled to sit with their friends in among the broken chips and flying pieces of hamburger meat. Meanwhile, it was out of the cold, out of the wind, and the parents could get a few moments to themselves while the little ones feasted.
In a world of hustle and bustle, it was fun watching the process … and being thankful I wasn’t on clean-up duty.
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