I recently arranged a big family outing at an arboretum. Like a busy general I prepared our exact line of attack: first around the heron pond, then up through the orchid patch to double back at the shade trees, and finally to the Japanese garden.
Food trucks are a proud American tradition. They date back to the prototypical chuckwagon of the cowboy era, a little horse-drawn field kitchen presided over by a “cookie” who’d probably smack you over the head with a ladle if he caught you sneaking chili before your shift ended. Food trucks have also played an important role in Hollywood right from its start. Imagine working as a stuntman on the set of Sparticus during filming in Death Valley, sweat pouring down your brow after a long morning shoot, and your relief at the sight a food truck puttering down the road toward you.
I am from Vermont, a state fiercely protective of her few specialties. The consensus in Vermont is that leaves only turn color there in the autumn, ski mountains out west are too tall, and Canadian maple syrup contains pesticides. Likewise, Vermonters believe that any ice cream which doesn’t originate from a certain factory in Waterbury is suspect in some way.
I’ve been all around the country, and no place has got fishermen as passionate as Minnesota has. Simply drop the word “walleye” into conversation here and you’ll see minds wander toward thoughts of spinnerbaits, jigs, and white buns. Maybe it’s something in the water, or just the sheer abundance of it, that has made Minnesotans this way.