One of the greatest joys of my teen years was jumping in my car and driving.

In my high school years, I tooled around in a 1972 Dodge Polara. A 1975 AMC Gremlin became my college years upgrade.

One evening at the institution, three other inmates and I couldn’t decide which campus dining hall to visit.

“Hey, let’s go to my house,” I said.

We crammed ourselves into the Mighty Grem and took off on the nearly two-hour drive to Mom and Dad’s for supper.

It was called dinner at the university, but back home on the farm, we called the evening meal supper. Dinner on the farm was called lunch at college. This is why I needed a college education — so I’d learn new names for my meals.

“What did your mom say when you called her?” one of my passengers asked.

“Call her?” I glanced at my inquisitor in the rear-view mirror. “I figured we’d just surprise her.”

Surprised she was. Fortunately, she’d cooked a big ol’ pot of chili that night, figuring there’d be plenty of leftovers. There weren’t.

We all agreed that Mom’s chili beat everything on the menus of the dining halls. After wiping out the chili and assorted goodies from the fridge, we passed out hugs, piled back into the little car, and drove the nearly two hours back to school.

Yep, the bunch of us 20-year-olds made a 3½-hour round trip just for supper.

Forty-some years later, I’ll make a meal out of fried eggs and peanut butter because not only do I not care to make the now 12-hour round trip to Mom’s, I don’t even want to endure the five-minute drive to the grocery store or restaurant.