I hope I haven’t been leaning on the microwaveable gas station burrito as a part of my lunchtime diet too much. I have been cutting back as of late: I didn’t have any in July, and while I may have fallen off that particular wagon a bit in the last couple weeks, I’ve got enough sack lunch supplies on hand that I shouldn’t have to head to the gas station this week. I was probably at peak burrito back in May/June, when we were in the process of moving, and the schedule was so crazy that I didn’t really have the time to get to the store for the usual household staples, and nearly all of my meals were weird, strangely timed, and largely improvised.

As to why I settled on these burritos in the first place, it was from back in my ultra-penny-pinching days when Lorie and I first moved to Seattle. I did a quick survey of the goods available at the gas station (virtually all packaged fare; no fresh fruit or veggies to be seen. It’s definitely a purveyor of snacks, not a “market”), and settled on the burrito as a good source of calories at an acceptably low price. It was several hundred calories of fat and protein, so I basically got it as a sufficient bachelor chow to fuel sustained biological function for the day. Not exactly a glowing review, I know! But they’re not objectionable… at least when they don’t have metal fragments in them. Fortunately for me I’m apparently a gentle chewer, and wasn’t chomping away like a wood chipper.

As you can tell, I’m quite the gourmand. But, weirdly enough, I’ve developed a bizarre association relating to these burritos. During the course of my lunch breaks, I’d be eating one of these and reading an anthologized version of Samuel Johnson’s Rambler essays. So now the two things are kind of tied together in my mind: thinking of Samuel Johnson harrumphing around 18th century London makes me crave one of these burritos, and vice versa. Who would’ve thought my brain would file those two things in the same drawer?