Before I surge ahead into 2009, I pause to invoke some nostalgic Christmas images to keep me going through the back-to-reality that is January. So here's a wave and a last shout-out to chestnuts roasting on an open fire, a one-horse open sleigh, silver bells, Christmas lights twinkling, Jack Frost nipping, carols in the air, and a partridge in a pear tree. Do you feel warm and fuzzy yet?
It was good to get away to California for a week to see my brother and sister-in-law and mother and others. Some may look forward to holiday chestnuts and peanuts, but my brother Vince and his wife Leenie are my favorite Christmas nuts. They are nuts about each other and the world thinks they're nuts too. Vince is about forty and a senior engineer at Intel. He wears glasses, sports a mustache and goatee, and has brown hair sprinkled with gray and a hairline that is starting to recede. Leenie is a petite strawberry-blond Irish Catholic gal who laughs at least ten times a day and generates fun wherever she goes. She is the champion caterer and foodie of all time. (Speaking of nuts, her seasoned Christmas cashews are to die for.) She once catered a bash at the Skywalker Ranch for George Lucas.
Yet she's down to earth about her eats too. Recently when she got hungry she went with Vince through a McDonald's drive thru and got a basic cheeseburger. It was her first food of the day even though it was almost lunchtime. As the sandwich was handed to her through the window, she took a bite and assumed a facial expression of total bliss. "Joy on a bun," she sighed rapturously. Vince's green eyes twinkled behind his glasses, and he grinned and put his arm around her. "You, Leenie, are joy on two buns."
Showing posts with label fast food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fast food. Show all posts
Friday, January 2, 2009
Friday, November 21, 2008
Day-Off Reminiscences
When the present gets difficult, I retreat unashamedly to nostalgia. Given the popularity of old Westerns in this town, I am not the only one. As the economy has gotten worse, more people seem to gather around the TV at Garcia's Restaurant to watch Bonanza, Gunsmoke, and The Virginian. I try to keep it in perspective though. In the 1950s and 1960s things may have seemed more stable, but we also had the Korean War and Vietnam. And children hiding under their school desks during atomic drills. Duck and Cover, everyone!
As an antidote to fantasy nostalgia about the good old days, I recalled today the bad old days at my first job, Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips. I was a high school senior at the time. The year was 1976. Arthur Treacher's was located in a suburb on the west side of Cleveland, Ohio. I was the worst Counter Girl that Arthur's had ever seen. I could not even keep my orange and green checkered headscarf on straight. But I eventually developed a passable skill level and managed not to get fired. I also learned much about life there.
My manager Laurie Perkowski had a boyfriend called Jimmie Tedesko. Laurie was nineteen, with strawberry blond hair and freckles. Jimmie was a fine upstanding character who was wanted by the IRS for tax evasion. Laurie and the assistant manager, Jeff, told us that if Jimmie was in the back room with Laurie (making out) and someone walked in and asked if Jimmie was there, we were to lie and say no. After all, it might be undercover law enforcement coming to arrest him. I will never forget the night Jimmie and Laurie had a fight. Laurie had to go to work and left Jimmie at her house to cool off. The next thing that happened was Jimmie calling Arthur Treacher's to tell Laurie that he had her car and was going to total it. All I recall is waiting on customers and hearing Laurie's tearful voice in the background, "Jimmie! Jimmie! I'm so afraid of you!" Jimmie was a bigot too. He called women of color "Sugar-Boogers" and that was one of the nicer epithets he used for those of other races. Jimmie really needed someone to feel superior to.
Jeff, the assistant manager, was a real angel as well. He made dope deals over the same phone Jimmie used to torment Laurie. Jeff was the top marijuana salesman in town. I used to wonder how he paid for such a fancy sports car on an assistant manager's salary. Now I know.
Years later, one of my pastoral colleagues recalled how drug-laden the 1970s were. We were having American Indian Awareness worship services at that time and burning a lot of sage during worship in a tribal circle. My colleague Sam cracked, "Kids, this is what a Steppenwolf concert smells like."
As an antidote to fantasy nostalgia about the good old days, I recalled today the bad old days at my first job, Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips. I was a high school senior at the time. The year was 1976. Arthur Treacher's was located in a suburb on the west side of Cleveland, Ohio. I was the worst Counter Girl that Arthur's had ever seen. I could not even keep my orange and green checkered headscarf on straight. But I eventually developed a passable skill level and managed not to get fired. I also learned much about life there.
My manager Laurie Perkowski had a boyfriend called Jimmie Tedesko. Laurie was nineteen, with strawberry blond hair and freckles. Jimmie was a fine upstanding character who was wanted by the IRS for tax evasion. Laurie and the assistant manager, Jeff, told us that if Jimmie was in the back room with Laurie (making out) and someone walked in and asked if Jimmie was there, we were to lie and say no. After all, it might be undercover law enforcement coming to arrest him. I will never forget the night Jimmie and Laurie had a fight. Laurie had to go to work and left Jimmie at her house to cool off. The next thing that happened was Jimmie calling Arthur Treacher's to tell Laurie that he had her car and was going to total it. All I recall is waiting on customers and hearing Laurie's tearful voice in the background, "Jimmie! Jimmie! I'm so afraid of you!" Jimmie was a bigot too. He called women of color "Sugar-Boogers" and that was one of the nicer epithets he used for those of other races. Jimmie really needed someone to feel superior to.
Jeff, the assistant manager, was a real angel as well. He made dope deals over the same phone Jimmie used to torment Laurie. Jeff was the top marijuana salesman in town. I used to wonder how he paid for such a fancy sports car on an assistant manager's salary. Now I know.
Years later, one of my pastoral colleagues recalled how drug-laden the 1970s were. We were having American Indian Awareness worship services at that time and burning a lot of sage during worship in a tribal circle. My colleague Sam cracked, "Kids, this is what a Steppenwolf concert smells like."
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