When I was a kid growing up in Plano, my parents would bring home Whataburger, always late, after they went out with friends. They’d bring back handfuls of freshly wrapped cheeseburgers and those tall, striped cartons of onion rings. You’d know it was a good Friday night in our house if my brother, my mom, my dad, and I were all curling French fries into ketchup, slicing cheeseburgers down the center, and eating sheaths of fried onion rings together into the wee hours. Because Whataburger has always, always tasted better under moonlight.
My mom could never finish her burger, so she’d leave half of one wrapped in plastic wrap in the fridge. I’d swoop by the next day, like a Texas bat, and devour the remaining burger, dipping the corner into a tub of ketchup. I used to eat Whataburger before -- and after --football games.