Road food-like substances

I had hoped to visit various local food joints along the way, and maybe I can, still. But today, trying to outrun the next bout of snow, I had no choice but to stop at one of the myriad fast food places close to the interstate.

From my college days I had fond memories of White Castle hamburgers which sold for 5 cents each in 1970. I remember them as little 2x2 inch morsels of goodness oozing fat, onions, pickles and pepper on a delicious steamed bun.

So I stopped, for the first time in 30 years, at a White Castle in Erie Pa for lunch. For $5 I got four little burgers, fries and a soda. As God is my judge it was the worst thing I have ever eaten, except maybe for the Mopane worms in South Africa which were foisted off on me as a great tribal delicacy by the locals. But when I accidentally dropped one on the floor, a dog put it in his mouth and spat it out. Smart dog. I think they were just goofing on the white folks--we did treat them poorly, after all.

Anyway, the crappy cardboard-like fries were the highlight of the meal. Besides being almost inedible, festooned with a bunch of union-like bits unknown in nature, a pickle of dubious etiology, and a damn near toxic level of salt (which was OK since it was the only thing imparting flavor), the burgers were sodden with grease and melted into a gooey mess when they came into contact with saliva. The meat, if that is what it was, measured less than 1/4 inch in thick, but maybe that was for the best.

And, in a grand gesture of hubris and conceit, each of the gut bombs is presented in its own little box, as if it was a Faberge egg fit for the Czarina rather than a fetid mass of goo.

Note to self: Never, ever, go to White Castle again. Even the regular Coke I got from the fountain tasted like it had urinal deodorant in it. Come to think of it, when I was in college the only time I ever ate these burgers was when I was drunk and had managed to not spend my last dollar at the bar. Hell, a buck would get you 20 of the little bastards. Just what was called for at 3 AM after a night of debauchery, but not the best thing for a cold sober lunch along Interstate 90 in Erie, Pa.

Day one

This morning at 5:45 I loaded Jackson the dog into the car and charged off into the darkness and snow headed to Texas for Christmas. My 91 year-old Aunt and Uncle live in Midland and I want to spend Christmas with them, and if that means a three day drive, so be it. Originally this was to be a more leisurely trip, with an open ended itinerary guided only by good dog parks, beer stores, and bar-b-que joints, but nature and the legal process intervened. I had to tread water in Syracuse to take care of some legal stuff, and then got delayed by a big snow and ice storm. So a seven day window shrunk to three and the anticpated leisurely amble to Texas became a forced march.

I am also running from grief this holiday season; with Liz not here, there is not much to keep me in Syracuse but a whole lot of lurking ghosts. And though I love her family dearly, as one friend perceptively put it "you are traveling to find comfort among the people you've known for much of your life." So true; hope it works.

The last few times I went this way I was headed to the Mayo Clinic and had Miss Lizzy in the back. When I would look in the mirror , I would see her lying flat due to the spinal fluid leaks, napping or reading or just staring into space. But this time I see the curly brown eyed little dog snoozing and breaking wind almost perpetually. Liz would approve.