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Los Pinos

We woke up this morning in Chelan–210 miles from our garage.  It wasn’t even light out.  And as the bed time set up went, I was sharing a room with my little guy, who at 5:15 this morning, crawled onto my covers claiming he needed to eat at Los Pinos.  Apparently there was a burrito calling his name.

And so we were up.  Him and me.  Him rattling on about refried beans.  And me aghast that I’d be driving  four hours home on a speck of sleep.  With two children. One who would twist and buck in his car seat, cry for Los Pinos and sleep for exactly one hour.

Well, by one o clock, the Los Pinos talk had only intensified. The peanut gallery in the backseat was squealing at the possiblity of bean burritos.  And I was beginning to see things, namely a tamale with a side of rice and beans.  So we could do no less than eat at Los Pinos.  Pronto.

Which we did.

Then lest we forget how grateful we were for this coveted food, our son prayed aloud for the entire establishment, ” Thank YOU, JESUS, for our food.  AMEN!!”  When he spoke again, it was with a burrito bite tipping off his spoon and most of his beans on his shirt.  “I’m lovin’ this,” he said.  And the rest of us nodded our consent.

Because there was nothing left to say.


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