Ok, so you think that fish tacos sound nasty? Wrong. In fact, they were pretty good.
I had the pleasure of eating a basket of three fish tacos at Blue Coast Burrito in Jonesboro. Candice, Reagan and I met Jake (and his kids) and James (and his kid) at BCB for an impromptu mexi-seafood feast-fest. Sorry, you didn’t make it.
While there, conversation drifted towards stories of my past (as it often does when Jake has anything to do with it). The topic of jams came up. Jams are shorts that are not short. Usually, jams are designed out of wild and obnoxious patterns and look like pants that are afraid of shoes. Imagine some eighties-style weightlifter pants, cut them off mid-shin and add three cups of totally awesome. Yes, I wore them.
But better than that, I didn’t pay for them. I wasn’t bound by James fetish for fashion. My mom made them. You would think the other kids at school would mock me for that. Nope. I didn’t go to school. Who needs school when you have got jams. I was too cool for school, and almost too cool for jams…if that is possible.
I remember Mom taking me to Hancock’s to pick out the material. Oh, how I hated that place. Hours and hours of looking at material still on the ream. I would try to see if I could hide behind the taller ones–which became really boring in about 1.2 seconds. Then after picking out the material, we got to pick out the pattern. Patterns were located in one of several trillion envelopes with pictures of cartoon people wearing the desired pattern. Super lame.
Mom would come home and spend hours marking the material and cutting and sewing and hemming. The end result was a pair of Jams that made me like I just walked out a top clothiers boutique…wearing homemade jams.
I have been awesome ever since.