This month I’m co-teaching a food writing class to a group of young people aged 12 to 17 at 826 Seattle. We had our first class last night, and it went very well–much better than I’d feared. One exercise that was a hit: I brought in five weird fruits (kumquats were the most normal) and had the students describe them, then use their descriptions to write a paragraph extolling the virtues–or lack thereof–of the fruit. For example:

The hideous cherimoya, or custard apple, has a disgustingly green skin and a mushy banana-like appearance on the inside. The soft middle is surprisingly sweet and juicy. It also has a banana smoothie smell.

Later we had the students write about a memorable meal, and got some great responses, which I hope to get permission to print next week. For now, here’s what I wrote. Thinking about it now, the chronology is probably somewhat off, but whatever.

Things started looking up when I made it into the basement.

When I was 11, my family moved into a house with a basement. Actually, the old house had a basement, too, but it was dank and terrifying, most notable for mold and furnace noises. The new basement had windows and wall-to-wall carpeting.

But my room was upstairs. Pretty much every week I’d ask if I could move into the basement. Finally, when I was 16, my parents relented. Oh, the basement had one more thing: a door to the back yard. My first night in the basement, I snuck out and took the car. Destination: Taco Bell.

The Taco Bell was ten minutes from home, and at the time they had my all-time favorite fast food product: the wild big beef taco. The “wild” part referred to a viscous bright-red hot sauce, and the Big Beef part meant that it was like a regular taco that had been pulled at each end until it doubled in length. They were 99 cents each, and I ordered three of them.

I was worried that the guy at the drive-through would know that I was sneaking out, which was ridiculous, since at that time of night the drive-thru was a parade of pimply 16-year-old boys. If they were especially lucky, they might have a girl in the car with them. I was never so lucky. The girls always ordered bean burritos.

I rushed home, turned on David Letterman, and tore open a taco like it was a Harvard acceptance letter. Crunch. Oh, yes. The basement was worth the wait.

I still live ten minutes from a Taco Bell, but the Wild Big Beef Taco was discontinued long ago. It’s probably just as well. I don’t know if my wife would understand if I came home in the middle of the night stained with sauce.