---

There are fugitives loose in McHenry.

It seems two gentlemen robbed a burrito joint last night and, when the owner wouldn't hand the money over, a scuffle ensued. The owner was shot, as was one of the assailants. The owner died. The assailants took off on foot.

My brother Dennis and I watched the story unfold on the news last night at my parents' house. When the segment ended, he looked at me and said, "Let's go try to catch them."

"O.K." I said. "That sounds like a good idea."

"The first thing we'll need," he said, "are plenty of snacks."

My relationship with Dennis revolves around snacks. Snacks we are currently consuming, the snacks of yesterday, snacks we'd like to consume in the future. Back when he was teaching me to drive, we used to take breaks at a convenient store to pig out on Hostess Fruit Pies and chocolate milk. Then we'd get home to find my mom had prepared a lavish meal--say roast beef with mashed potatoes or barbecued ribs with potato pancakes or maybe chicken and dumplings--and we'd have to feign hunger.

"Oh!" I would announce dramatically. "I am STARVED."

"You have cherry filling on your chin," Dennis would whisper.

"What? What are you laughing at?" my mom would demand.

"Nothing!"

"What were you two doing, anyway? You were gone a long time!"

"Nothing, Mom! God! Let's eat!"

When I lived with Dennis in California, we went to the grocery store one night for the express purpose of getting some snacks to accompany our evening plans of watching Cops.

We wandered a few of the aisles aimlessly until Dennis stopped walking and looked at me.

"Do we want pop snacks? Or milk snacks?"

How beautiful! How simple! He had, in a fleeting moment of brilliance, broken down all snacks into two very distinct categories! I was speechless, and I still hold some reverence for that moment in my life today.

We ended up choosing Ruffles and dip...which are, of course, pop snacks.

My mom makes tasty cinnamon rolls for major holidays. One morning--it might have been a Christmas Eve morning or a Thanksgiving morning--Dennis and I were gathered at her kitchen table, waiting for the cinnamon rolls to come out of the oven. Other siblings may have been there, but Dennis and I were the only ones with plates, butter, and milk (cinnamon rolls = milk snack) ready to go the second the rolls appeared.

Finally, the first batch emerged from the oven. My mom set them on a trivet in front of us.

"Keep hands and feet clear of the table!" Dennis told her as she snatched her arm away before we could gnaw it off.

In an extremely illegal move, Dennis skipped the outer circle of cinnamon rolls and cut directly into the middle to get the good inside rolls.

"YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" I cried. "Mom! Dennis is taking all the inside rolls!"

My dad appeared in the kitchen, saw his two youngest children tussling over the first pan of cinnamon rolls, and left the room in a cloud of disgust.

Dennis slathered butter all over his three inside cinnamon rolls, then jammed them into his mouth, one by one, so I couldn't snatch them away. When they were all safely encased behind his greasy lips, he raised his glass of milk to his big, flappy face so he could choke them down. I waited until he began to swallow, then told him in a low voice,

"You are a fucking pig."

The ensuing mess he made spitting out the contents of his mouth got us kicked out of the kitchen, but I didn't care because he didn't really get the three inside cinnamon rolls after all.

Dennis and I house-sitting at my mom's house a few years ago. Snack-o-Rama!