THERE ARE THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF FOOD BLOGS, BUT ONLY ONE CULINARY NO-NO!
*THE FOLLOWING IS A RE-WRITTEN VERSION OF A PREVIOUS CULINARY NO-NO THAT IS NO LONGER IN MY ARCHIVES. I HOPE TO HAVE A NEW NO-NO NEXT WEEK*
This segment includes the following:
And there are three related parts to the no-no.
Many years ago I knew a young woman, an acquaintance, who was very sweet and pleasant. However she was married to a rather average chap. Harmless, but lacking in personality and any social graces.
Seems this fellow was firmly set in his dinner routine come the end of the week. His wife who rarely displayed any discomfort or anger in public was under strict instructions that when he was to arrive home from work on a Friday, a la Fred Flintstone, his dinner was to be at a place setting near his E-Z chair the table, ready for immediate consumption. Not in five or ten minutes. I said immediate. As soon as he walked in the door and sat down.
And not just any menu. The required bill of fare was not one but two McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, two orders of McDonald’s french fries, and two McDonald’s apple pies. Every Friday. This had been going on the couple’s entire married life and was to continue in perpetuity. The guy bragged about the ritual while his bride merely smiled, not with sheepish reluctance but with acceptance. Her not so better half clearly could not fathom how uncouth this came off as the two surely have rarely if every experienced a romantic Friday evening together since saying “I do.” The boor as I recall responded to my friendly question as to whether he tired of such a monotonous, unexciting drill by answering with a firm repetition of his orders to the missus in machine-gun fashion, that she knew he wanted his two fish, two fry, and two pie ready to go when he entered as plopped his butt down in the recliner. He’d be dead today if any feminist organization showed up at his door on a Friday.
The news bulletin is divorce court never happened, a funeral parlor was not involved, and Taycheedah missed out on another inmate.
This unusual husband and wife story as you might expect stuck with me. How does this guy get to salvage a glowing, somewhat doting wife while he continues to drag his knuckles? I was told by another party that Mrs. Saint did zero to try to change matters and the slave-like regimen resembled the Energizer Bunny.
One day not long after learning about the Friday night dinner delight I was watching a particular episode of M*A*S*H* for the gazillionth time when, of course, the lightning bolt hit. The plot on my TV screen matched the neanderthal in his Golden Arches manly living room. Except that Major Charles Winchester at least thought he may have…a problem.
The entire camp complained to Charles that he snored, however he was in stubborn denial. Even so snobby Charles went to vacuum out his conscience to Father Mulcahy. The dialogue went like this:
Charles: I’m afraid there is the possibility–slim though it be–that I…snore.
Mulcahy: Snore. Oh. Good heavens, Major. What…courage it took to admit that.
Charles: Well, Father, I’m afraid you don’t understand. See, all my life I’ve harbored a secret dread that I may not be worthy of my name, that I may not good enough to be a Winchester. What if all this malarkey is true, that I do…snore like a common factory worker. What if that’s just the tip of the iceberg? What if there are even more vulgar traits lurking just underneath the surface? Today…snoring. Tomorrow, sitting in front of a TV with a cold brew watching roller derby. What if–perish the thought–I am actually the same as everybody else? I couldn’t live with that.
The priest became, as he occasionally said on the program, acrimonious, telling Winchester that his ancestors were factory workers, enjoyed roller derby, and liked a cold brew. Winchester stormed out of the good Father’s tent, shouting “That’s the last time I come to you with a serious problem!” Mulcahy yelled right back. “I’m still waiting for the first time!”
It all started innocently on a Saturday morning. Jennifer suggested running to McDonald’s. Not for Filet-O-Fish. Heavens no. Breakfast sandwiches. Good idea I thought since there weren’t any donuts in the house.
When the following Saturday arrived those McMuffins sounded tasty again. Off Jennifer went. And again a week later. And again. And again. And again.
This McGreasy regimen went on and on and on. Suddenly I became the guy in the recliner. And Major Winchester, too, as I began to question myself and what was happening.
What other vulgar traits might be on the horizon? Belching in public. Accidentally wearing a shirt with stains, or white after Labor Day. Putting ketchup on my brats and steaks. Losing cool points by the hundreds.
That was some time ago and thank God for me the Saturday streak did come to an end. I switched to crullers.
CULINARY NO-NO BONUSES
ICYMI…Culinary no-no #651