Some things are okay to cheap out on. A gas station hot dog will do just fine when you’re not going to make it until dinner, and a toddler is quickly going to figure out how to ruin any shirt you put on them.
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.