How much my parents rock (part 562).

Tonight, after I reached home in my seventeen-year-old car whose new oil and spark plugs and spark plug wires and fuel injector cleaner were all my father's idea and garnered me 35 mpg this afternoon (no joke), I broke open two of the three packages of cooked-overnight pulled pork my parents had packed (along with leftover pumpkin pie and leftover sweet potato casserole and frozen sugar cookies) in a styrofoam cooler and settled into the backseat of the car, and I fed myself and my Clevelander student the best dinner we've eaten in this house in months.