 O! Cereal!
The Insufferable Gourmand
Nick Rickles
Like most in this rambling metropolis, I endeavor to enjoy a hearty, yet artful breakfast upon waking each and every morn. On the majority of days, such primal desires are sated by a few time-honored staples: eggs benedict on thick slabs of 17-grain toast, steaming Belgian waffles topped with cherry compote and shot through with flaxseed, and spicy, impudent links of porksome sausage. But on a few sleep-drowsed occasions, the fearsome breakfast-gods–most notably the devious duo of Omelos and Baconsword–conspire against me, and my pantry is shockingly barren of such toothsome delights. But through great adversity comes great triumph–and even this first mischievous meal of the day is not exempt from such an age-old truism.
For, you see, it was on one of these soul-ravagingly eggless daybreaks that I learned the simple joys of a long-forgotten companion: the oft-maligned bowl of cereal. That's right–cereal. Now, you may flippantly denigrate it as a child's trifle, complete with vulgar chartreuse marshmallows and a Hangzhou-made plaything hidden at the bottom like the basest of pornography. I must admit that I myself am guilty of such prejudice. While I have certainly been known to enjoy a heaping bowl of homemade granola, replete with hand-plucked berries of elder and rasp, I take great pains to avoid boxed cereals like a case of Croatian whooping cough. After all, who has ever had a transcendent dining experience from a cardboard box?
The answer, dear friend, shook me to my very core.
For it was I who had such an experience, not two days past. After desperately prowling my stocks, in vain, for the ingredients to prepare a ploughman's morning feast, I happened upon a winsome-looking carton of shredded wheat. Normally, I would scoff at the very idea of starting my day with such a crude repast. But the package's royal blue background and kindly, smiling pilgrim worked to seduce me like a strutting painted harlot. I brought the confounded thing to my skeptical granite countertop, pearls of sweat breaking out at the chance I was taking. How did the box even get into the house, I wondered, my mind racing like a hound after its quarry. After deciding that it must've been the product of a wild-eyed Whole Foods spree, I forced my misgivings aside and set to work.
My first hint of surprise came when I realized that the biscuits came snugly wrapped in wax-paper rows of six. This was a far cry indeed from the uncouth "lift-and-dump" of the Lifes and Oatie-O's of my bedwetting salad days. Each biscuit was like an old friend whose memory was long ago lost to the names of Northern Italy's Pinot Noirs–strange, yet somehow truculently familiar. I removed three from their papery swaddle, and, over a hand-fired bowl of the finest Asian ceramic, crushed them in my hands, as if I were a half-nude Cherokee squaw with a stout oaken pestle.
Next came the crucial moment. What to lay atop my wheaty pile? Once again, Omelos and Baconsword tried to drag me to ruin, as there was not a single blackberry or Chilean banana in the house. I cursed the two of them for their hateful insolence, seething, and, as delicate stars began to dance before my eyes, I remembered another unheralded utilityman in the pine-shelved dugout of my pantry:
Thompson raisins.
I tittered insanely with the maddening simplicity of it. I flung aside the door, and grabbed the cylindrical tube which housed the antlike mass of chewious, grapey treats. Its lid was no match for my fevered excitement, and I hastily scooped the tiny violet treasures into my impatient bowl. This, now, was something.
I found almonds, as well, and added them to my ever-swarthy mix. Looking down at my creation, I felt as if I were God Himself, gazing down at his perfect universe on the seventh day. I grinned wide with the aptness of the comparison, and rushed to the refrigerator for my trusty bottle of organic milk, squeezed from the lavender teat of a loving cow named Hattie who grazes in the sun-dappled lowlands of the fabled Lehigh Valley.
After pouring on the stark-white nectar and sliding a sultry spoon into the potent morning brew, I knew that I had it all. I took my first bite and was humbled with unabashed amazement. Here I was, the lord of the egg, the master of the blueberry pancake, the despot of banana-stuffed French toast–enjoying a meal that a feebleminded toddler could produce with stunning ease. At that moment, hungrily lapping up the spoonfuls of wheatsome goodness, raisiny glee, and almondous ecstasy to my lustfully quivering mouth, I was one with the entire quickening race–the honest workingman with his Cheerios. The dull-eyed housewife with her Smart Start. The idiot child with his Frankenberry.
And me. With my gladful shredded wheat.
I love you all. |
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Johnny Rockets Wows History-Loving Tourists
April 22, 2008 – The Baxter family, of Shawnee, OK, yesterday reported that their weekend trip to Philadelphia's historic sites had been immeasurably enhanced by a Sunday-afternoon meal at South Street's Johnny Rockets outlet. "After seeing so much of your city's history from the 1700s, it was amazing to also experience what it was like there in the 1950's," said Jeb Baxter, 36, by telephone from Shawnee. "I tell you, it really felt like we were in a time warp."
 His wife Betty, 34, agreed. "Oh, it was just the neatest place–all those neon signs, and old jukeboxes and photographs," she said of the equity firm-owned mega-chain. "Now, it's not quite as old as some of the places we saw, but it must be pretty darn old. I'll bet they haven't changed it at all since it opened way back when!" The couple's 10-year-old son, Randy, was similarly captivated by the city's varied historical offerings. "We went to the City Tavern for dinner on Saturday, and everybody was all dressed up like George Washington," he said of another faux-historical Philadelphia eatery. "And then the next day we went to Johnny Rockets–and everybody was dressed up like it was the '50's! Philadelphia is awesome!"
Their waiter, Nick Mendoza, 20, however, was not nearly as enthusiastic. "Every once in a while, you'll get people like them who don't know it's a chain," he muttered, smoking a cigarette as he stood on South Street in his ridiculous white uniform and paper hat. "And you can't really tell them that it's basically a more degrading version of Burger King. That just makes you want to kill yourself that much more." For his part, though, Jeb Baxter said that Philadelphia's diverse historical choices would likely bring his family back for another visit. "We've already talked about coming back, because we just love all the history you guys have," he admired. "And if you love the history, you've got to love the Johnny Rockets." |
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