Picture this: you’re a kid, almost old enough for middle school, and you’re buckled into the back of the car in your sweat-soaked Umbros and oversized cotton jersey. You’ve just finished a long morning of soccer or baseball or softball, chasing other fast-but-clumsy kids all over an enormous field in the summer heat. All you’ve consumed over the past few hours is an orange, some Fritos, and a Capri-Sun; maybe some Gatorade if your parents were especially prepared.
You walk through the doors of a briskly air-conditioned Pizza Hut, and you’re assaulted by the aroma of buttery garlic bread, salt, and cheese. You scoot into a red laminated booth seat and slurp down a cold, bubbly sip of Coke before walking over to the buffet, where you pile your plate with creamy, over-sauced Alfredo pasta, slices of greasy, thick-crusted pepperoni pizza, and breadsticks. Your teammates roll in; the room gets loud and crowded; you all play arcade games while your parents finish up at the salad bar.
