Dear Whataburger,

Please come to Boston. I miss you.

As the crow flies, your closest franchise is 1,132 miles away in Yulee, Florida, just south of the Georgia border. I think we can agree this cartographic injustice works for neither of us. It cheats you out of the hungry customers you deserve, and robs me of considerable gastronomic pleasure. But this cry of the heart is about more than self-interest, I assure you.

If your absence goes unrecognized by my fellow New Englanders, it is only because they have no idea of who or what you are. I try to preach the Gospel According to Breakfast Taquitos, but the good news is met only by confused questions—“Is it the same as White Castle?” “What are tacky toes?” This travesty must end. Think of how you might educate the overly-skinny masses of Massachusetts even as you fill out their frames!

Before shipping out to Boston in late December 2012, I treated myself one final time to a double-meat cheeseburger without any toppings. That’s right, it’s so damn good, it doesn't need all the extra crap. Don't get me wrong—your spicy ketchup is great, but the way your burger's juicy meat melts and mixes with the cheese...

(Sorry, had to take a break from writing. Turns out drool doesn't mix well with ink.)

I can hear you saying: “If you like us so much, why don't you come back to Texas?” Fair question. Indeed I was furloughed briefly last December and did return home to see my family. Unfortunately, I scheduled the reunion for Christmas morning, stupidly forgetting that all of your franchises are closed then. Hunger fed my idiocy, which in turn fueled my hunger.

Today marks the 49th week since my failed attempt to reconnect. I thank heaven for the genuinely supportive group of fellow New England Whatafans that has helped me through these trying times, however lamely. Like all the other ex-Texans, I somehow eke out an existence anyway, though sometimes I’m not sure how.

Still, I hope you won’t think my own privation has clouded my judgment. I truly believe your culinary gifts would be received warmly by a whole new generation of taste buds here, despite the poor taste represented by Carolinas barbecue and Red Sox baseball.

Yours,

Andrew Husband