food

Fat Chicken

~ yellowlamplight ~ 2 Comments

Fat. Chicken.

Those two words sum up everything that is wrong with this world.

It all started decades ago when I was a young college student. I had long blonde hair, an old Subaru I adored and zero money. Like none. Most days I ate ramen noodles. You have no idea how many ways you can make ramen noodles. I would list them, but this blog would devolve into a Bubba Gump situation. I feel that’s unnecessary for my purposes. However, if you have never melted cheese whiz on ramen noodles, what are you even doing with your life?

Anyway, back to me as a starving college student. The only reason I was content with my diet of deep fried noodles was because, sometimes, I would have enough money to go to a local restaurant. It was a little dive where the tables are not clean and the floor has more food on it than your plate and you honestly don’t care. You don’t care because the food is so, so good. Not good for you. Just good. I’ve seen many a hangover averted because of one of their breakfast plates. Two eggs, hash browns and two slices of toast will absorb a lot of quarter beers at three in the morning. I would say my reference to quarter beer night at the local bar just aged me, but I already told you I went to college decades ago. Whatever.

Anyway, it was never the breakfast plate for me. It was the chicken strips. The chicken strip plate to be exact. Four strips, Texas toast, white gravy and french fries. My goodness. They were so good. I can’t even tell you. Cooked a little too done and maybe with a little too much salt but delicious. I remember them being around four bucks for the whole plate, but I can’t swear to that. All I know is I loved them. For years.

Then, decades later, when my little girl grew up and decided to go to my college I got a phone call from her one day. “Mom, did you ever have the chicken strips at that place on the highway ?” Honey. Did I ever have those chicken strips? It was a moment. We could have been two young girls in that booth together.

After that, I had to make sure I took my husband. He needed to love them too. He did. They kind of became a thing for my whole family. Every time we were there we stopped to eat. Sometimes, we drove an hour to eat there. In fact, on the day before my grandson was born, I drove my now graduated and married daughter back so she could have some of their chicken strips. She was nine months pregnant and miserable and she needed a little love. We slid into that booth and every thing was ok. We talked and dipped and set the world to rights. Then, when the grandson came and grew up big enough, we took him. I have a picture of it. For him, it was the Texas toast. I’m ok with that. We don’t all have to be the same. But, I did get him to eat a little bit of chicken and I’m pretty sure it was the first time he did. Life was progressing as it should have.

Then, I found out my second grandson was coming. I made a mental note to get him there as soon as possible. I was serious. Very serious. By this time, everyone had moved even further away and the little town and those chicken strips weren’t close to anybody. But one day, on a road trip, I routed myself right through that little town at lunch. I was stopping for some chicken strips. I figured I might could take some home and put them in the freezer for the youngest. Literally, I had that thought. Never mind that I had six hours to drive and no ice chest. I would have bought one. Important is important.

I found a place in the tiny parking lot, opened the sticky front door and found a table with a little food under it. Happy, happy sighs. Waitress with long nails and blue eyeshadow came over to take my order. She, literally, had been there in my college days. I confirmed it during one of my visits with my daughter and husband. They were mortified. I was pumped. Anyway, I ordered the chicken strip platter and sent my husband a quick text. “Guess where I am?” I’m not above bragging about good food. I sent him a picture of my enchilada platter once when he was dieting. I know. Anyway, mine was coming.

I say that because when that nice lady brought my chicken strip platter and set it down in front of me things started to go really really wrong. First of all, the chicken smelled wrong. I picked it up to sniff it to be sure and all I smelled was seasonings. Weird, fancy seasonings that don’t belong on chicken strips. And, this is what made me start to cry, the chicken was fat.

Maybe you don’t understand what I mean by that, but my sister-in-law does. She and I share a general distrust of chicken. It can have pieces and parts holding it together that nobody wants to find. We know this because we’ve found them at several restaurants and a few family dinners. Her husband gets really mad when we find those parts. Especially, if it causes us to retch or to tear our chicken into tiny pieces trying to make sure we only get the parts we like. Yes, we are grownups. Decades old. But nobody has time for that foolishness.

For me, it started when I was pregnant on a really hot day and I was forced to watch someone eat a giant turkey leg. I threw up in every trash can at the ball park. I don’t know when it started for her because we can’t have a conversation about it. If we do, we start gagging. It’s not good.

And now, my beloved chicken strips were fat with a million places to hide the parts nobody wants to find.

I’d like to tell you I ate them anyway, but I didn’t. Nope. I sat there sniffling and eating french fries dipped in gravy and then paid my nineteen dollar check. (Don’t even get me started on that!) The waitress came over carrying my plate and asked me if I wanted her to box it up. I shook my head sadly and left. I got in my car, started up Anne Murray and drove out of town.

However, twenty miles down the road, I started to get really angry. How dare they change my chicken strips and make them fat? Why? Why would they do that? So, and this is the part that mortified my daughter, I pulled off the road and called the restaurant. The conversation went something like this:

“Hello, can I speak to a manager?”

Various country music songs played.

“This is Chuck. What can I do for you.”

“Chuck, I was just in your restaurant and ordered your chicken strips.”

“Oh did we leave them off your order?”

“No Chuck. I got them.”

Silence.

“Ok, were they cold?”

“No Chuck they were piping hot, but they were different.”

“Different?”

“Yes Chuck. I have been eating chicken strips at your restaurant for decades and they have always been the same. Nice, flat, not too seasoned chicken strips. Today, when I ordered them, they were overly seasoned and they were fat.”

Silence.

“We changed them.”

“You changed them?”

“Yes, ma’am”

“Why Chuck?” I asked. “Why did you change your chicken strips? I loved them. My daughter went to college there and loved them. My husband loved them. My grandson loved them. We all loved them Chuck.”

“Well I took over from my folks and I wanted to go more of a hand trimmed, hand breaded direction. And we added more seasoning.”

“No, Chuck. Just no.” I might have yelled this part.

Silence.

“Ma’am are you still on the premises?”

Poor Chuck.

“No, I’m not still on the premises and I probably never will be again. Definitely can’t bring my new grand baby to try the chicken strips my family has loved for generations. Nope, can’t do that Chuck. And your gravy is just as good as it ever was and I love the corn nuggets but I can’t drive six hours for those Chuck. So what am I supposed to do Chuck? Where do I go to find flat chicken Chuck?”

“Ma’am, when you say my name it sounds like you’re cursing.”

“Maybe I am Chuck. Maybe I am cursing you and your fat chicken.” I was definitely screeching during this part.

Chuck hung up.

That was probably for the best.

Chuck and I were not having a productive conversation.

But, who knows? Maybe, I made Chuck think. Maybe, somewhere along the way, he will realize what all of us who went to college decades ago have already realized.

Staying the same is its’ own kind of power move.

Keep the damn chicken flat and seasoned with salt.

The audience is there and we are loyal.

Wall Drug

~ yellowlamplight ~ 2 Comments

The zoo in Colorado Springs is my favorite. It’s bullt on the side of a mountain and the views are incredible. Albuquerque Zoo is a close second. There’s something about the air there and they used to have an orangutan that pretended to smoke cigarettes. He was funny. My sister, however, swears by San Diego’s zoo. She says there’s no competition and I believe her. She’s the zoo lover extraordinaire! Myself? I’m more a fan of a good people zoo. I love going to the mall and sitting in the food court and just watching folks. Y’all are funny. The skinny teenagers giggling behind their hands. The way too patient mama who might need to give her kid a little pat on the behind. The beleaguered dad sucking down an Orange Julius and questioning his life choices while his family shops. But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for Wall Drug in Wall, South Dakota. Not even Vegas where I once saw a guy dressed up as Elvis wearing a wedding dress in a wheel chair. Take a minute to picture that. I’ll wait. Back to Wall Drug. That place was the mother lode of people watching. Mostly because there were hundreds, felt like thousands, of them crammed onto its’ property. Ever been there? It’s more than a little crazy and pure American. First of all, they sell everything you could imagine. Need neon dice that flash? They got ’em. A full barbecue meal. It’s there. Brontosaurus sculpture? You know it. They also have an entire boot store! A huge one. And, wouldn’t you know, in that crowded place in the middle of nowhere my husband was suddenly in the market for boots. Not a joke. My husband is a very thorough shopper. He has looked at me aghast many, many times in our long marriage because I tend to walk in a store and buy the first thing I like. This makes sense to me. I like it. It’s for sale. I’m good. Not him. He has to try it on and think about it and debate it–it’s a whole thing. To keep us married, I have learned to remove myself from those situations and find something else to do. Hence, I sat on a bench for almost an hour just watching people. Wow. I’ll say it again. Y’all are funny. Mr. Man with the big tummy who dropped ice cream on himself and got a chewing out from his wife I see you. All the people with dogs, the puppy says hello–again. Way too skinny lady with spangled back pockets and blue eye shadow debating the sparkly pink boots– you have been noted. Scary looking biker dude wearing no shirt and a leather vest with an even scarier skull looking thing on the back–I averted my eyes, but I totally saw you too. To be honest, you kinda intimidated me. You need to take it down a notch. Go have some ice cream or something. Ask big tummy guy where to get it. Mom with the leather purse suffering through your own version of hell in the gift shop while waiting for your four(!) kids to pick a souvenir I totally see you. Where on earth was your husband? Probably trying on boots with mine. Some people. I decided, that day, we should stop taking foreign tourists to places like the Statue of Liberty or the White House and instead drop them in the middle of South Dakota at Wall Drug. This is where they can really experience America. In fact, I think half the country was there the day I visited. It’s hard to find a square inch in that place not occupied by someone! Even the giant jackalope wearing a saddle is crawling with people looking for a photo op. And, by the way, you guys cough and sneeze and touch things a lot. And some of your coughs sound a little serious. Tall man in the plaid shirt I’m talking to you. Turns out there is a limit to my love of people watching and it centers around the fear of tuberculosis. So, when I had finished my 32 oz. weird tasting pineapple drink and there was still no sign of my husband, I went and told him politely it was time to go. Well, pretty politely. I did snap my fingers at him and the lady chewing out her husband for spilling his ice cream gave me a little nod of admiration. As we made our way through the throng of people trying to get to the front door and back to our car, I made sure to soak the moment in. To really notice all that Wall Drug is. I did this because I have no intention of ever going back. Been there, done that and yes, I bought a t-shirt–the very first one I saw. My husband, however, did not buy boots. Some people.

Emporia, Kansas

~ yellowlamplight ~ 2 Comments

We left on a Thursday after work. Late afternoon and already tired. Forgot to check the weather and hit a storm in Oklahoma City that was truly impressive. One of those Lieutenant Dan, “God showed up!” storms. It was tense to say the least. There might have been some “being married conversations” about who, exactly, should have checked the radars before we left. A few about why we had stopped to eat losing our chance to stay ahead of the storm. (I was starving!) Facts are not always celebrated in those conversations and the particular fact that we hadn’t known about the storm when we stopped was not received with any measure of warmth. Neither was the whimpering coming from the back seat that said our puppy needed to stop. Rain pounding, lightning flashing and hazard lights blinking and another stop was necessary. Thankfully, my husband wears a ball cap everywhere and I always forget an umbrella so we didn’t have to struggle too much with the decision about who would get out with the dog. It just made sense. Don’t shoot the messenger. Twenty soaking minutes later the puppy was curled up in the back seat having not done what she assured us she needed to, I was turned in my seat so I wouldn’t have to see my husband’s particularly cranky profile and we were on our way again. Miles of dark highway and stars peeking through clouds. No conversation. No music. Just the need to get there. A place we had no connection to or desire to visit. Just a stop with a hotel. Somewhere to lay down. A pause before morning and the rest of our trip. And finally we were. There. Trying to gather things in the darkened parking lot. Checking in and dealing with the puppy. Hungry again and not home. Questioning our intelligence and, frankly, our fealty to this whole idea of a road trip. Maybe even to each other. The morning dawned cloudy and grumpy. Nobody had really slept. The puppy, in her own show of disloyalty, barked way louder than was necessary. Two or three times. This caused another married conversation about why we had not left her with her big sister at the kennel. She picked this particular moment to tilt her head at us like she understood we were talking about her. Normally, this would have caused hearts to melt. She’s a really cute puppy. That morning? Zero warmth. Things were not looking good for the road trip. I snuck in the bathroom to see how far it was back home and if there were any storms on the horizon. Like anyone needed Weather Bug to figure that out. We went down to breakfast grumpy and disgruntled and pissed off. On the way down, my husband made sure to comment about how lousy hotel breakfasts always are. Stupid powdered eggs and stale bagels. Old raisin bran and leftover melon. I reminded him, legally, we were not required to eat every free breakfast offered. He looked at me like I was someone who would forget to check the radar before leaving on a trip and we entered the breakfast room in a full-on spiral. But there, in all of her warmth and glory, was Annette. Annette with her name tag and big smile. She took my husband immediatley and showed him how to work the waffle maker. Pointed out the little dishes of chocolate chips and nuts and cherries that he could add to the batter. Pointed to a fresh pot of coffee that he could start on while he waited for the timer to go off. Told me I looked well rested (!) and asked if I would like an everything bagel with cream cheese or some fresh fruit. It was at about that moment that my husband and I both looked at each other to say, “Why can’t you be more like Annette?” But then, just like the night before, the clouds finally parted and we started to grin. I found the silverware for him and he made my coffee just like I like it. We found a table in the sun and Annette sat down to visit with us. Wanted to know where we were headed and told us how much she loved her job. She’d been there for years and wasn’t going anywhere. She told us she liked people and her bosses took good care of her. Told us we should have a good day. We ducked our heads and said we would. Had another cup of coffee and headed up to gather our bags for the next leg of our journey. As we left, I could hear Annette greeting other guests. Gracious, friendly and kind. Each person as important as the last. Day after day. Breakfast after breakfast. Later, in the truck and headed into a sunny day, I checked the Yelp ratings for the hotel. I was thrilled to tell my husband Anette was Yelp famous. Almost every review started with praise for her and how she made people feel. I was so glad we had ended up there with her for that night. Just a happy lady doing her job well and loving freely on all the free breakfast folks. Even curmudgeons like us. Probably, especially curmudgeons like us.

Mitzi used points.

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

I had the occasion to be having lunch in a Thai restaurant not long ago. One of those places with gleaming dark tables that are placed entirely too close to each other. Fine if the place is empty. A problem if it’s not. Well, it’s a problem for me. I mostly don’t enjoy strangers listening to my conversations. The folks who made my phone notwithstanding. You know how that goes.

Anyway, back to my lunch. I was there with my husband. He’s mostly quiet. Mostly always. We work it out by me talking and him grunting. That’s all I need. I have more than enough words for both of us. This particular day I was glad he was quiet for another reason. I was in heaven. The closeness of the tables were yielding rich, rich fodder for my writer’s heart. The lunching ladies at the table next to us appeared to be operating under the belief they were enclosed in a force field created just for them that kept the rest of the restaurant from hearing their conversation. They were not. I assure you. I could hear everything. And I was listening. Oh boy was I.

Before you judge please understand they were talking about really personal things. Things I shut my bedroom door and hide in my closet to talk to my sister about! Seriously.

I’m just going to say the one with flashy diamond rings is married to a man who should be checking his credit card bills a little closer. His wife isn’t traveling solo. The one in the pink sweater set has finally found a girl named Veronica who waxes her in the manner she grew accustomed to the three years she lived in New York. A perfectly precious apartment across the street from Central Park and nether regions waxed as smooth as a new born baby. She shared the number with the girls in case they wanted to switch from that perfectly horrid Angela at the other place. She promised them they would be pleased and reapplied her red lipstick. It matched my cheeks. The one who kept checking her watch and who ate all of her lunch, even though she wasn’t remotely hungry, has decided not to invite April to her next luncheon. I guess I understand. April did blow her nose on one of her host’s beautiful napkins at the table while people were still eating. And she understands they were paper napkins but they were expensive and they were on theme. Who does that? At this point in her story, per my peripheral vision, she rested her forehead onto her open hand while the lady next to her patted her shoulder. Tragedy. In the Thai restaurant. I used my own napkin to wipe a tear before it landed in my food. I felt her trauma.

Sometimes, as a writer, I have to work hard to hear someone’s conversation. I guess I really shouldn’t listen, but y’all are interesting. You give me great ideas that I use to my advantage. But not with these ladies. They did me the favor of talking at full volume. In a loud restaurant. I didn’t miss a word. Not one. Well that is until the topic of a friend’s upcoming wedding came up. It’s going to be in Vail. In the summer. They hate the color palette. Champagne and gold. So dated. Shrimp for dinner sounds good. They are all flying together. It will be so fun to get drunk on the plane together. (Bet that will generate a headline somewhere!) And the condos they rented are walking distance from the shops. One of them is looking for a perfect carving to hang over the new fireplace at the lake house.

But then, something incredible happened. A topic was introduced these ladies didn’t feel was polite to discuss in public. I’m not even kidding. I mean at this point any patron of the restaurant could have blackmailed any of the three with a pretty fair chance of scoring some cash. But, apparently there are some things that are just not to be shared. Mitzy, their dear friend, was taking a different flight than the rest of them because, pink sweater set whispered quietly and emphatically, she bought her ticket with points. “Points!” she repeated fiercely.

Granted, I almost missed that part but, thankfully, I had accidentally dropped my napkin and had to bend over to retrieve it. What? You’ve never dropped your napkin? At least I’m not April. Anyway, back to the ladies, their friend had not used cash and purchased the best seat available to anyone on earth. Instead, she had taken a lesser seat to save money. Three heads landed in three palms and they were all patting each other’s back. A commiserative circle for the ages.

It was at this point that I choked on my soup and my husband looked up at me, grinned and asked if I was ready to leave. I grinned back and said, “No way am I leaving this chair. Ever.” He grinned again and went back to his rice. Turns out he’s learned a few things from me.

There would be a long conversation later. The miles in our truck spent relaying the conversation to each other and laughing until our sides hurt. Taking comfort in the fact that our credit card bills hold no secrets. That we use plain ole’ Bounty napkins and can withstand table nose blowing. That we would never discuss waxing to each other much less in public.

And that we have a heart for Mitzi and her points. She could be one of us. Granted probably much better dressed, but I bet she wouldn’t turn down the free peanuts. Mitzi seems like a practical gal. And she has my eternal respect and gratitude.

She made those three lower their voices and that fact is still making me giggle. A lot. I like giggling and I like stranger’s conversations. Sue me. I’m a writer.

Searching for Christmas. Day 4

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

Stop and think for a minute about the noise of Christmas morning. Packages being ripped open. Squeals of excitement over what’s inside. Dad’s pleas to put all the paper and ribbons right into the trash. Mom’s pleas for another cup of coffee. The oven timer announcing fresh cinnamon rolls. Various noises from new toys. Dings, and clangs and clatter. It would be hard to describe a scene more representative of Christmas and what it means to everyone. I’m looking forward to just such a moment this year. Two grandsons. Hopefully a sister. My sweet husband. God willing it will happen. But, I’ve been on this earth long enough to have learned it’s the quiet moments that come before that noisy, joy filled one that really give Christmas its’ weight and depth. Its’ true sweetness. Ever been to a Christmas Eve service at church when the whole congregation falls silent while the candles are lit? One person sharing the dancing flame to the next and the only sounds are jacket sleeves brushing together and an escaped cough in the back. Ever gotten up early and walked outside in the snow? Your breath goes ahead of you and your shoes make that delicious slushy, crunching sound that means you beat the crowd. Your footprints are first. Ever been the first one to your dad’s table to have coffee with him? It’s the first day of vacation and you have no where to be. You and your dad drink coffee and talk just enough to not be awkward. He gets up and brings a paper towel folded into a square for your cup. You place it there and steady it with your hands so it doesn’t lurch. You want him to think his folded square is perfect. Ever been asked to watch your baby grandson on a quiet December morning? You drag his bassinet into the family room and rock him to sleep in front of the Christmas tree. It is so quiet and all you hear is his steady little breathing. Later, when he wakes up, you can see the tree lights reflecting in his eyes and when he smiles at you it’s Christmas. Weeks until the official day. The cinnamon rolls, package opening day but still Christmas. I wonder what quiet moment happened in all of your lives today that gave you that Christmas feeling? I wish I knew them all and I hope none of us miss them when they come. It’s a noisy world. Dings and clangs and clatter everywhere.