My little sister and I have this thing about shakes. Chocolate ones to be exact. I mean, if you're going to have a shake, it must be chocolate. Strawberry flavoring is only good in Neapolitan ice cream, or maybe Nestle's Quik if you are six, and I can't stand vanilla shakes ever since I got one from Jack in the Box that was all clotted with "fat."

My sister's and my enjoyment of chocolate shakes moved beyond simple preference to pure obsession one sunny summer day after we had been grocery shopping for our mother. The trunk and back seat of the car were full of bags, and the only room for our jug of milk was on my sister's lap.

We were giddy with the freedom of being out on the town because this was shortly after I'd gotten my driver's license, so we decided to go nuts and drive through Burger King for shakes. I think we were going to pay for these shakes by stealing the $20 my mom left in the glove compartment for emergency gas money. We rationalized it by calling it our reward for doing the shopping.

So we drove through Burger King, and I very clearly said TWO CHOCOLATE SHAKES, but as I was driving away, I realized I was holding one chocolate and one strawberry shake. And I was too much of a lazy wuss to go back and complain.

So little sister and I got in a big debate over who was going to have to drink the strawberry shake, me holding both shakes far away from her reach and driving in circles around the parking lot, steering with my knees. Eventually we decided to give the strawberry shake to my middle sister (we originally weren't going to bother getting her anything, seeing as how she had Little Red Henned us by not helping us with the shopping) and go drive through McDonald's to get a second chocolate shake.

But who would get the Burger King chocolate shake and who would get the McDonald's one? I still wouldn't trust little sister with either of the two we had so far, even though I really needed my hands for driving by this point.

"I don't trust you! You'll drink the chocolate one! You'll drink it!" I yelled.

"I didn't drink the milk, did I?" She yelled back, trying her best to flourish the gallon jug at me.

Not that that last bit made any sense, but I needed to shift gears so I gave her the shakes and spent the rest of the way to McDonald's trying to psyche her out about which chocolate shake I ultimately wanted.

Not that I actually cared, but it was fun trying to think of reasons why one might be better than the other. Fatter straw, browner color, less melted...you know.

Then the lady at the drive-thru McDonald's window dropped our dime change on the ground. It was an all around day of adventures. Too bad we'll never duplicate it, since I gave up shakes once I read they are all made with little plastic pellets.