Ranch dressing was on my shopping list last week. My wife and I don’t eat a whole lot of it, but the grandchildren sure do. They don’t eat a lot of salad, but they love to put it on other things. Like pizza. I find this puzzling, but one grandson first sprinkles parmesan cheese on his slice, followed by red peppers, and then a healthy squirt of ranch dressing. A granddaughter loves to eat rice smothered in ranch dressing. Some dip a burger or grilled cheese into a puddle of ranch on their plate. Not to mention pretzels and chips. Before you know it, we need to buy more.
I never noticed it before, but Walmart and other stores have shelves and shelves filled with all makes and models of ranch dressing. I had my choice of the original Hidden Valley Farms, Ken’s, Kraft, Great Value generic, Marie’s, Newman’s Own, and a bunch more. I could choose lite, vegan, fat free, organic, or plant powered. Bonus flavors include cheesy, jalapeno, parmesan, pickle, and garlic. Next, what size do I want? They have them all from tiny dipping cups to squeeze bottles to restaurant sized jugs. I can take home a packet of spices and mix it up myself. Or sprinkle ranch seasoning on anything and everything.
I remember when ranch dressing became popular in the seventies. In 1992 it surpassed Italian as the most popular salad dressing in America. Now it occupies about half of the salad dressing section of the grocery store.
I’ll reach for it once in a while, but I’m not a huge fan of creamy dressings. I most often choose a balsamic vinegar or mix up my own Good Seasons Italian copycat recipe.
As we drove home from visiting my son, we searched every gas station convenience store for circus peanuts. Circus peanuts? Yeah, those sort of pink, half-way orange, stale peanut-shaped marshmallow treat. They have no nutritional value, little taste, and feel weird when you bite in. But some find them irresistible. So we keep searching.
Persistence paid off at a Keith’s Superstore in the middle of rural Mississippi. There they were in the candy aisle. Two for a buck fifty. One pack is enough, so let’s grab one circus peanuts and one…bag of jellybeans. Can’t go wrong with jellybeans.
When I popped a couple jellybeans in my mouth, I knew something was wrong. I was wrong. These jellybeans were terrible. No flavor, strange texture, sickeningly sweet. In a word, blech.
The circus peanuts weren’t much better. “These are nasty.” And very disappointing. Styro-bland. Once again, bleach. We tossed them. At the next stop we found real jellybeans, Brach’s. But sadly, no circus peanuts.
A container with nothing more than one jelly bean.
A bag containing one tortilla chip.
A single cookie in a box.
One slice of bread in a bag secured by a twist tie.
One Cheezit in the bag.
We have an unwritten rule: “Don’t eat the last one.”
That rule evolved over time, emerging from questions like, “Did you eat all the jellybeans… cookies… bread… Cheezits?”
Yes, it was me. Too often I ate the last of something, just moments before I heard the question, “Did you eat all of those?”
It took me a long time to learn the principle of “Don’t eat the last one.” It doesn’t matter how long it’s been in the refrigerator. It doesn’t matter if it’s past the expiration date. It doesn’t matter if the package is unopened. It doesn’t matter if it’s generic or a brand name. As soon as I eat the last one, someone will ask, “Did you eat that?”
Yes, it’s me. I ate all of them. I ate the last one. I finished the bag. I ate all the jellybeans. I finished off the box of cookies. And the banana bread. Ice cream. Cashews. Peanuts.
So I no longer eat the last one. Why is there one jellybean in the container? Why is there one cookie left in the bag? Why is there one slice of bread left? Why is there one segment of an orange in the fridge? Why is there one cashew in the jar?
I will not eat the last one in a plane or a train, in a house or with a mouse, in a box or with a fox.
I noticed more trash than usual out for collection day today. A lot of bike week festivities meant a few extra bags and lots of recycling this week.
After tugging the dogs away from this stray donut, I snapped a few photos, wondering what the story is here. If you look closely, you’ll also see half a bagel trying to escape from a white kitchen trash bag.
I can imagine a shrill voice saying, “You said you were going to take care of the garbage!” A hungover dad stumbles down the driveway with brunch remnants. He doesn’t even notice the donut that bounces out onto the driveway. Even if he did, I doubt he’d pick it up. You’ll notice he couldn’t be bothered to pick up last Thursday’s local merchant newspaper.
This glazed bad boy will soon discover that life on the outside is treacherous. I didn’t let my dogs near it, but deer, cats, birds, dogs, and insects will be interested. Mom will probably nail it when she backs the car out of the driveway to take the kids to school. A gentle rain will melt it into the ground.
Whether consumed or discarded, a donut’s life is brief. Mama, don’t your babies grow up to be donuts.
While walking the dogs the other day (we take them out about twice a day), my mind wandered to some of the meals I ate while visiting new members and homebound folks. Coffee and cookies were pretty common. Sometimes good. Sometimes not. Sometimes out of a package. Sometimes homemade.
And sometimes I got a meal. Kathy was one I visited many times, while she was taking care of her father at home and then later when she couldn’t get out and around. But she could cook.
On one occasion, I had a vicar (pastoral intern) in tow when we went to visit her at lunch time. She roasted two whole chickens for us. These were surrounded by mashed potatoes, green beans, salad, and rolls. All this was followed by a Klondike bar for dessert. She always had six or seven varieties of Kondike bars in her freezer. That’s why you couldn’t find many in the store. It was enough food for a dozen people.
Pastoral ministry tip: just take a little bit of everything. Pace yourself. When pressured to get seconds, take even smaller spoonfuls. And, of course, leave room for dessert.
The day would come when Kathy couldn’t prepare meals for me. So she would have me take her out for lunch. We hit Olive Garden, Red Lobster, Alfie’s (on the beach in Ormond Beach, FL), TGI Fridays. She always paid, even though she was living off an impossibly small monthly income. She never ate much, but took home leftovers for the rest of the week. She also took home all the packs of butter on the table to go with the rolls.
When Kathy couldn’t physically get in and out of my car, she would have me stop and bring lunch. Her favorite was Chinese take out. While I would get General Tso’s chicken and fried rice, she would always request a large container of egg drop soup. When I arrived, she would drop a whole stick of butter into the soup container, and stir it until it all melted. I know, I little rich for me, too.
She also got meals on wheels each week. I got to try one of those meals. The microwavable meal was some kind of meat (the label didn’t specify), green beans, mashed turnips, and a roll. As I ate the meal she graciously shared with me, I remembered that I had eaten goat in Haiti, and banana soup and ugali in Kenya. I’ll live.
When she could no longer cook, Kathy offered me a pork roast out of the bottom of her freezer, underneath all the Klondike bars. When I asked how long it had been in there, she said, “I think it’s from last year.” It was over a year old.
That I said, “No thank you.” I wasn’t sure I’d live through that. One needs both faith and wisdom to survive in this world.
Another member I went to visit, S., had grown up in Cambodia. She escaped in the 1980’s, found refuge through a church in Michigan, and there met her husband. For my visit, she prepared enough food for twenty people. She deep fried two-dozen homemade spring rolls over a small backyard burner. To this she added multiple vegetable, noodle, and sesame seed side dishes. All for me. She didn’t even eat. She just watched me. I brought home a nice container of leftovers from her house.
And then there are many visits to ninety-eight year old B., who lived with her daughter, B2. Before Covid, B. would be awake most of the night and sleep late into the day, so she didn’t make church very often. It was a three-hour event when I came to visit. B2 always prepared a wonderful meal. I had chicken parmesan, tilapia, short ribs, meat loaf, pork loin chops. The sides were all kinds of vegetables, potatoes, rice, and bread. And of course, a dessert, most often some kind of cake or pie, with a scoop of ice cream. B. and B2. had lived in Bolivia back in the seventies, and had an arsenal of South American cuisine to draw from. Yes, it was always delicious. But it was also enough food for eight to ten people. I never had to worry about supper on the days I went to visit this family.
Every once in a great while, I would visit a family who offered me a beer. One such family thought I was German, so I had a choice of six imports that day. I only had one, since I still had to work that day and I also had to drive home.
P. who was a non-drinker, had the most extensive selection of beer and liquor in town. Whenever I visited him after his wife died, he always offered me a “bump and boost.” I think he meant a shot and a beer.
For me, the coffee (strong and black, please) was the best part. Caffeine is an essential part of an afternoon visit, if you catch my drift.
If I think of more snack and meal reviews from my time in ministry, I’ll be back to write a sequel.
I believe my grandchildren ask themselves this question every time they come to our house. From the minute they walk in the door they are foraging for snacks. Immediately before and after supper, they stand and look in the pantry or refrigerator in search of a snack.
“Can I have a cheese stick?” Cheese sticks have always been a popular snack at our house. But you better have the right ones. If I offer them cheddar, they will want mozzarella. And vice-versa. The swirly combination cheese sticks are usually a safe bet.
In different seasons of life they have preferred different snacks. Mini Oreo cookies were popular for a while. Sometimes they wanted chocolate, other times vanilla. One granddaughter would eat the cream centers and leave the cookie shells behind.
Trail mix is another popular snack. It’s not as healthy as it sounds, since their version of trail mix was mini marshmallows, chocolate chips, and Craisins. Of course, they would eat the marshmallows and chocolate, and leave the dried fruit behind.
Fortunately, the grandchildren all liked fruit. They often choose an orange, apple, or banana. Apples used to be a good grab and go, but now it has to be peeled and sliced up for them. If the kids find out we have strawberries, they will consume them in a sitting.
Chewy fruit snacks have always been popular, too. The word fruit justifies eating a little bag full of sugar.
Me? More than anything else, I reach for nuts. Cashews, peanuts, or mixed nuts are often my snack of choice, especially in the evening watching television. During the day, apples and oranges are the first thing I see when I open the refrigerator, and I might reach for one of them. A few Christmas cookies are still calling my name from the garage freezer, and it’s only fair that I indulge them as well, right?
We weren’t in a hurry. After an afternoon of crafting with a crafty friend, we decided to get chips, wings, and a burger at a nearby sports bar type restaurant. I was surprised by the crowd when we arrived. The parking lot wasn’t full. But the wait was short and we settled into a big booth.
Our server breezed by to get our drink order. “Chips and salsa, too, please.”
“Sure!” She quickly returned with our drinks, took our order, and disappeared around the corner. Disappeared is the key word here. From now on our waitress will be out of sight. (Sorry. It’s almost Christmas. I can’t help it.)
We chatted about the Christmas cards we had just crafted, upcoming family birthdays, this week’s trip to Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas, next week’s trip out of town, big dogs and little dogs, and “She heard us order chips and salsa, right?” It had been about ten minutes since we ordered. Someone usually runs them right out.
As we sat, a few tables finished up, replacement families sat down, and no one was watching the televisions around the room. We talked about Christmas Eve and Day with the family, gifts ordered, gifts we were waiting for, gifts to return, and “I don’t even see our server.” When other servers brought plates to folks who arrived after us, we began to feel forgotten.
“How long have we been here?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Maybe we should flag down another server.” While several hustled around the dining room, none passed by our booth.
As I scanned the room again, our server suddenly appeared from around the corner with our food. Well, most of our food. Wings? Check. Burger? Check. Chips and salsa? Nope. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. Just be sure to take them off our check.”
Our server stopped by multiple times to make sure everything tasted good. It did. Our food really hit the spot. I didn’t say anything, but wondered how we got lost on a not-so-busy night. I’m sure I have no idea all that happens in the back, even when things slow down.
So I’ll just be thankful for a less frantic, more relaxed moment in my day, food on the table, and time together.
After I dropped off my dog at the groomer, I drove by my favorite Starbucks to see if they had re-opened. The store had been closed for remodeling, and the half-full parking lot was a welcome sight. With journal and pen in hand, I looked forward to an hour of coffee, eavesdropping, observation, thinking up story ideas, and doodling.
I actually had two journals with me. The one was just about full with just two blank pages left. The other was freshly unwrapped without a single mark on the pages. I love new journal day! I remember my mom telling me how much she loved cracking open a new notebook, feeling the smooth pages, and anticipating the words and images that would soon fill them. I know exactly how she felt.
Anyway, when I stepped into the redone coffee shop, I noticed a lack of seats. Half of the store was set aside for the baristas. The mobile order pickup area was expansive. One long table with chairs on each side filled the coffee-drinkers’ side. At each end was a table surrounded by a few chairs. A few scattered customers essentially filled the room. There was no place to sit, unless I was comfortable sitting side-by-side with purple-haired macchiato-drinking woman chatting on her phone.
I found a spot to sit outside at one of the ten patio tables. While there, I wondered, “Why did they get rid of so much indoor seating?” I put on my franchise-owner’s hat and came up with a few ideas.
Since it was right off the interstate, a lot of this location’s business was drive-thru and mobile orders. More room for more baristas will keep up with demand.
Every time I’ve been there, homeless were camped out, nursing a tall coffee for hours. Students occupied tables with laptops and textbooks for hours. Interviewers met with job applicant after job applicant. Fewer seats moves more customers through the store.
It was a corporate decision. This is what we want our stores to look like. We’ve never been to your store, but the data says this is the way to go. Live with it.
We want people to moan and groan about the change. There is no bad publicity, right? Let’s give the bloggers something to rant about. You have a problem with this? Let’s talk about it over coffee.
By the time I left, the parking lot was full, the mobile order counter was full, and the drive thru line was out to the street. Someone knows what they are doing.
It didn’t take long before we forgot. Over the course of one summer we forgot a cardinal kitchen rule: don’t leave food near the edge of the counter.
It a dog thing. Years of Labrador retrievers hammered that statute home. The most retold story was from the Gabriel archives when we lived in Baltimore, almost forty years ago. My wife decided to make homemade noodles from an old family recipe. She mixed them up, rolled them out, sliced them up, and laid them out on towels to dry. We had to go out that night and upon our return, the noodles were missing. They were gone. Every single one of them. Yes, Gabe helped himself and like a lot of delicious foods, once you start, you just can’t stop.
Lesson learned. From that point on we pushed any kind of food to the back of the kitchen counter or placed it on a higher shelf, out of reach. Our most recent large dog, Samson, wasn’t really a counter surfer, but we still didn’t leave anything in reach.
With a smaller dog at home now – my readers will know him as Winston the West Highlands White Terrier – it’s not an issue. At less that one foot high, he’s no threat to food on the counter. However, one of his best friends, my daughter’s one-year-old Golden Retriever Rex is.
I had several pans of meatballs ready to go into the oven. I walked over to the refrigerator to grab something, and by the time I turned back, Rex had eaten one row of uncooked meatballs. If I had not caught him, it would have been a pizza delivery night.
Then, just the other night, my wife baked a loaf of cranberry bread. After it had cooled on the counter she sliced it in two to freeze half and eat the other. Winston and Rex were outside chasing each other around the yard and the family sat around the fire pit getting ready to roast marshmallows for s’mores. My two grandsons ran in and out of the house as they usually do, one time letting the dogs inside. When my wife went inside to get a drink, she discovered half of a half a loaf was missing. Teeth marks betrayed the culprit, Rex. With that goofy dog smile on his face, I’m sure he thought, “If you didn’t want me to try it, you shouldn’t have left it on the counter.”
Yes, we should have known better. In fact, there’s no guarantee a short dog won’t find his way up on the table. Winston has gotten up on the dining room table when a bench wasn’t pushed in all the way. Sharp eyes caught him before he got any food.
And then there is the legend of Sable our basset hound from a decade or so ago. With a vertical leap of about 2 inches, we never thought she would be a threat to a kitchen counter. However, we did pull into the driveway one day, and saw her up on the kitchen table looking out the window. Somehow she got up on a chair and from there up onto the table. No food was consumed and from that perch, she was able to effectively watch the house while we were gone.
We’ve learned to be safe rather than sorry. Keep all food out of reach.
Waite for it... 