Bologna: it's kind of like being in prison (Lunch stories, Part II)
A few days ago I had a nice time looking back fondly on butter. Otherwise known as snacktime.
I figured it was only fair to contemplate the other side of this snack argument and search my brain for memories of epic and shameful culinary failures. And I have to say, they are almost always traced back to my dad. Thanks for perpetuating the stereotype of bad-lunch-packing-fathers, daddio. Keep doing your part.
This might not be the most creative food nightmare to plague society, but it's pretty legit....
Bologna sandwiches. The Oscar Meyer version.
It amazes me that bologna exists as one of America's treasured deli meats. (What is it???!) And it definitely had to be one of the most foul things I think I've ever had to force down as a kid.
But food isn't just about taste, now is it. It's about experience. Only the best offenders give you social consequences (or benefits?), too. And did it ever! Not only does bologna taste awful and have the consistency of a rubber glove, this little treat landed me at the reject table in kosher preschool land.
You see, Treif meat-eaters had to sit away from the rest of the kids living up their glory at the center tables.
I remember the layout of this place almost perfectly: two long rows of tables under a canopy, just feet away from the playground (....sadists....). And I had to sit on the far right, usually with one or two adults whenever I had bologna. This social -exile happened at least once a week, and it got to the point where every time I saw my dad packing lunch, my gratitude quickly turned into social anxiety and utter fear. Great behavioral lessons for a 4 year old, I'm sure.
This explains a lot.
But!
It also led to me honing my skills as a hustler. I grew tired of sitting with the teachers and eating bread (with mustard) and missing out on whatever stupid crap happens in preschool; so I would usually seek out one kind soul (sucker) to take pity on me in the form of a yogurt --the kind with sprinkles on top of the container-- or a cheese stick or something. Worked like a charm. Days that I got half of a peanut butter sandwich were particularly impressive.
This doesn't make me a mooch or anything. It's called "making friends".
My next post will probably carry on w/ this food theme and talk about more dad-related things. hooray!
I figured it was only fair to contemplate the other side of this snack argument and search my brain for memories of epic and shameful culinary failures. And I have to say, they are almost always traced back to my dad. Thanks for perpetuating the stereotype of bad-lunch-packing-fathers, daddio. Keep doing your part.
This might not be the most creative food nightmare to plague society, but it's pretty legit....
Bologna sandwiches. The Oscar Meyer version.
It amazes me that bologna exists as one of America's treasured deli meats. (What is it???!) And it definitely had to be one of the most foul things I think I've ever had to force down as a kid.
But food isn't just about taste, now is it. It's about experience. Only the best offenders give you social consequences (or benefits?), too. And did it ever! Not only does bologna taste awful and have the consistency of a rubber glove, this little treat landed me at the reject table in kosher preschool land.
You see, Treif meat-eaters had to sit away from the rest of the kids living up their glory at the center tables.
I remember the layout of this place almost perfectly: two long rows of tables under a canopy, just feet away from the playground (....sadists....). And I had to sit on the far right, usually with one or two adults whenever I had bologna. This social -exile happened at least once a week, and it got to the point where every time I saw my dad packing lunch, my gratitude quickly turned into social anxiety and utter fear. Great behavioral lessons for a 4 year old, I'm sure.
This explains a lot.
But!
It also led to me honing my skills as a hustler. I grew tired of sitting with the teachers and eating bread (with mustard) and missing out on whatever stupid crap happens in preschool; so I would usually seek out one kind soul (sucker) to take pity on me in the form of a yogurt --the kind with sprinkles on top of the container-- or a cheese stick or something. Worked like a charm. Days that I got half of a peanut butter sandwich were particularly impressive.
This doesn't make me a mooch or anything. It's called "making friends".
My next post will probably carry on w/ this food theme and talk about more dad-related things. hooray!
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