nostalgia

Fat Chicken

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

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 Peacock’s. Peacock’s was a little local 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 Peacock’s?” 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 to Peacock’s as soon as possible. I was serious. Very serious. By this time, everyone had moved even further away and Peacock’s wasn’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 my daughter is mortified by, 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.

Hallways

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

I bought my current house because of a hallway. I looked at the pictures online and was not impressed and really didn’t want to keep the appointment with the realtor. It just looked too square and sensible and un-romantic? Is that a thing with houses? If it had been a guy back in my dating days, it would have called every night and would have been ten minutes early for every date. Perfectly respectable and tragically boring. I’m picturing a face in my mind right now and feel a little guilty. He was lovely, but there was no spark. I expected the same from the little gray house, but I had not allowed for its’ hallway. I don’t know what it is with me, but I love hallways. Especially, the first time you meet them. Long, cool empty hallways. Space wasting, bare walled hallways that make no sense. Lots of doors with rooms you haven’t checked out. Full of promise and potential. But, I like them after too. When family pictures are hung everywhere and a spare umbrella is in the corner and there are echoes of busy kids running up and down and in and out. Family words hanging in the air like you could reach out and touch them. “Is that Grandpa? I heard the back door open!” “Honey, can you bring my shoes when you come?” “Dogs, come on. It’s time to go.” Hallways. They make me want to wrap presents and mix a mojito and slip into fuzzy slippers. They are a huge part of the feeling that says, “You’re home.” If I am away and close my eyes and picture home it is my hallway waiting there silently for me that I most want to get back to. And, every time I walk through my back door, I stop and drink it in. I pat the wall and say, “I see you.” We have a moment. My husband with his engineer brain understands none of this and pushes past me with the suitcases and makes a comment about wasted space. I allow it because I understand hallways are not for everyone. I’m just glad they are for me.

Perry, Iowa (Hotel Pattee!)

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

I suppose we all get mired down in our individual lives. Bills to pay. Strawberries to buy. Soccer games to attend. We go busily about our days and, sometimes, forget that there is a group of people in the world who remember that it is important to protect beauty for the sake of beauty. On our road trip, we found just such a group of people in Perry, Iowa. I wish I could tell you more about the town itself, but I can’t. Instead, I can tell you about the Hotel Pattee and tell you to make it a goal to spend a night there. I did. In the Telital room. It’s a room based around a man who loved journalism. There are old newspapers on the walls and a beautiful old roll top desk that I spent quite a bit of time with while I was there. Yes, I opened every drawer. Yes, I thought about leaving a secret note for whomever came next. Yes, I pretended I was a newspaper reporter from bygone ages with important copy to get out. I loved that room. You can go to their website and see it for yourself. Or, better yet, you can go yourself. You could book the Circus room or the Louis Armstrong suite. Their rooms all have a theme and they are beyond delightful. There is a coffee table book down on the front counter you can buy so you can peruse them long after you’re home. I’d highly recommend that. I’d also recommend petting the three legged dog that wanders the property and has his own bed just inside the back door. I’d definitely have a delicious dinner in their cafe. Enjoy the heavy glasses and the wood work and the carpet your feet sinks into. Take time to admire the intricate wood carvings on the back of each booth and the train that runs the perimeter of the dining room. Marvel at the breathtaking chandeliers and go down in the basement to look at the gorgeous tile work on the spa area and peek through the doors at the old fashioned bowling alley that you can still play on. Exhaust your husband with proclamations like, “Can you believe this?” and “They just don’t make things like they used to.” and “We have to bring the kids here. Can you imagine what the boys would think?” Go outside into the beautiful courtyard and beat your husband soundly at corn hole and wander through their sculpture garden. Take your makeup off in a beautiful black and white tiled bathroom that makes you feel like a fancy starlet and go to bed thanking God that there are still people who understand it’s important to protect beauty for the sake of beauty itself. I did and I also told the ladies thank you before we left the next morning. “You guys are important,” I told them. “We all need you. Especially lately.” They smiled and were gracious and told us to drive careful. Probably thought I was a little strange. Probably, I am. Especially since, I must admit, I shed a few tears as we maneuvered our way out of their tiny parking lot. Why? I’m not sure. I guess I am afraid we are getting too far away from that place that will make us drive an extra couple of hours to see a place like Hotel Pattee. There’s no mall there. No big sporting events or tourist attractions. It’s just a hotel in a small town in Iowa. Somewhere nobody would go without an intention to do so. I owe it to my parents that I did. They taught me to appreciate places like Hotel Pattee and I am so thankful they did. I’ve tried to do the same with my own children, but I’m not sure I have succeeded. Competition is fierce. But, I will keep trying. Because it is a valuable thing when wood gleams and windows have diamond inserts that make rainbows on plush carpet in the afternoon. Fresh flowers on every table. Amazing rooms that let you live a different moment in another place. All of it. Hotel Pattee holding the line against mundane and cookie cutter nights spent in chain hotels. I hope her doors are always open and I hope I’ve made you want to do your part to make that happen. If you take some good pictures please share! My husband drew the line at me asking to visit every room and I feel like I missed out!

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.

A day at the County Fair

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

You’ve been. The County Fair. That dusty, hot, smelly slice of life. You’ve jumped over the puddles where a hose leaked. You’ve stepped in various varieties of colored poop. You’ve seen the proud 4-H kids leading their steers, goats, pigs around. All of them with a checked shirt and a big number tacked to their chest. Behind them, you’ve seen their moms carrying all of the brushes and spray bottles and hair spray with hope splayed across their faces that this whole venture will turn out well for their kid. A blue ribbon. Maybe their picture in the paper. You’ve been in the exhibit hall to see all of the projects. The oil paintings of Pac-man and wolves and hummingbirds. The draw bridges built out of craft sticks. The jars of jelly and the purple and blue quilts. You’ve eaten the funnel cakes with powdered sugar that turns into a sweet silkiness that makes your napkin stick to your fingers. Just try and shake it loose. The long ears of corn dripping with butter and not quite shucked. The homemade lemonade with the little lemon wedges and, most times, an insect or two floating alongside them. You’ve seen the kids looking to spend their spending money. Meet boys. Feel grown up. They travel in packs and stand awkwardly at corners. They laugh too loud and yell across the clearings at friends to be noticed. They are defiant and needy and young. You’ve seen the super important guy running around with a clip board and a badge. This thing ain’t happening without him. He’ll guarantee you of that if you ask. Don’t. It will take a minute. But, he’ll also tell you where to go to watch the costume contest for goats or where the first aid tent is if your kid gets bitten by a bee or a rabbit or anything else. So, maybe he’s right. You’ve seen that family that looks a little down on their luck. Three or four kids. One of them named Blaze or Chance and a troublemaker. “Blaze stop it.” “Blaze get down from there.” “Blaze leave your damn sister alone.” You’ve seen them all share the same turkey leg and oversized soda. You’ve had a fleeting thought to buy each of those children their own ice cream cone but then didn’t. You don’t want to come off weird. You’ve ran into old friends and shook their hands and hugged their necks and felt the sweat on the back of their t-shirts. You’ve talked about mutual friends and how much the kids are growing. How much things cost and the weather. One of you ended the conversation by saying you need to get to the exhibit hall to see someone’s prize winning pumpkin or squash or batch of cookies. You’ve reached the end of your desire to see anything else and had someone in your group beg to go to the carnival. Books of tickets and cheap stuffed animals and an old peeling ferris wheel that looks magic in the dusk when the lights come on. You’ve stood there looking up at the laughing couples with their faces a blur against the twilight sky and felt lucky. Lucky to be a human. Lucky that you knew enough about life to be there. Lucky. Lucky. You’ve turned in a slow circle to take it all in. You’ve searched the crowd for those you’ve been to the fair with in the past. Your parents when they were still alive. Your children when they were toddlers holding your hand with an intensity you miss in your deepest heart. Your best friend from high school who always shared her lip gloss. You’ve gone home with a little bit of a sunburn, dirty tennis shoes and a restored heart. Lucky. Lucky.