Soylent Foul

As you may or may not know, the RIBM has a complimentary happy hour four days a week, Monday through Thursday. This happy hour includes some kind of snack, that is usually enough to be considered a meal. Tonight's meal was "Crispy Breaded Chicken Sandwich." I knew exactly what this meant: The "chicken" was pre-cooked, pre-breaded, processed, and ready to "heat 'n' serve." I am not a huge food snob; however, I would never seek this particular meal out. But, when accessibility, hunger, and freeness, all converge--it is the obvious meal of choice. I question, though, whether each individual chicken patty even is even derived from the same chicken, and even hesitate to call it chicken. I call it Soylent Foul.

Jerry's Chemo Brain was in full swing tonight, and when we went to eat the Soylent Foul, the manifestation was intense. Nolie went through the serving line to prepare Jerry's sandwich, and brought it to the table. Upon presentation, Nolie asked Jerry if he would like mayonnaise on his sandwich. Jerry countered with, "what is best?" Nolie and Jerry went around and around about mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, etc, until Jerry finally became very agitated, and said that he wanted the sandwich, "as it was designed to be served." I totally got what he meant, and Nolie totally did not. Many times I have told wait-people that I want a menu item "however it comes." Jerry and I are not picky, and "however it comes" eliminates the need to make a decision, which I know for me, is a treat, since I spend all day long every day making decisions, because other people don't seem to be able to do so. At this point I explained to Jerry that the traditional White Trash Chicken Sandwich is served with mayonnaise and a slice of American cheese on a bun. I squirted the mayonnaise onto the cheese and spread it around by mashing the top bun onto the mayo and smearing it. Jerry seemed to accept this, and ate most of his sandwich. I am both proud and scared that I was able to understand how Jerry wanted his sandwich, because Jerry is brilliant and organized to the point of absurdity, and because some day I will probably be every bit as absurd and cantankerous. It also illustrates other characteristics I have in common with my Dad, for example, procrastination.

Looking back, it is no wonder to me that I seem to have a gift for procrastination. I can even remember Jerry telling me that I was a procrastinator when we were living in the Old House. My childhood memories are divided between Old House and New House. We moved out of the Old House when I was three. He would tell me I was a procrastinator when it would take me an hour or so to get around to taking my bedtime bath. Well, just let me tell you this story about procrastination.

When I was very young, (New House, but still young) I remember going with my parents one weekend to some antique store in Arlington, where some man showed my father a very nice, very expensive, newly restored, antique roll-top desk. Jerry paid the man for the desk, and then called a different man with a truck to pick the desk up, take it to his shop, strip it, dismantle it into each individual component, and then deliver it to the New House. The plan was for Jerry to "re-build the desk" and be able to say, "I built this desk myself." It was a very nice desk.

The desk sat in the garage of the New House--unassembled--for nine years; after which Nolie called a different man, with a different truck, to pick the desk pieces up from the New House, take them to his shop, re-assemble them, and return them to the New House. It really is a pretty desk, and I suppose some day it will be mine. I suppose it's more about the story behind the desk, than the actual desk itself.

I really had a good couple of days in Houston with Nolie & Jerry. Later in the week I'll try to find time to tell the story of the Chair Feud Nolie is having with the neighbors at the RIBM.