Only toothless rednecks . . .
Tonight we shall blame my friend Burberry. He posted a photo of the Halloween/Thanksgiving display at the White Castle in Centereach, NY on Facebook, and this diatribe came back to me. This encounter occurred about two months ago, and I'm finally getting around to grossing you out with it.
The short end is my Dad grew up in Indiana. He grew up on the homegrown smell, aroma (if you want to call it that), and allure of White Castle. White Castle is hard to find in most of the country, and when I moved to Long Island all those years ago he was beside himself with joy to see a White Castle. I was not. I never ate there. Honestly, you can even ask my old roommate about the night we went there and she scarfed down far too many sliders, put chicken rings on her fingers as jewelry, and made "boobie sliders" by placing them on her chest. Clearly, someone was DRUNKY DRUNKY. I sucked on a Diet Coke and attempted to hold my breath, and the only time I ever ended up in there was with drunk people.
Shortly after I moved to the Island my friend from Puerto Rico told me his highly dramatic tale of trying White Castle one day because the bus stop was there. He looked at me, very appalled, and asked me how people could eat that crap? He proceeded to tell me about a very tall and loud friend of ours who he also asked about the White Castle nastiness. That tall friend grew up in Indiana, so he knows first hand of this White Castle foolishness. Apparently, he asked Puerto Rico if he was having money problems, proclaimed if he was he would loan him money so that he wouldn't have to die eating that nastiness. He then told him that only the stupid and poor eat there. I have to agree.
So . . .I never ate that sludge. When we moved to Indiana in 1987 my Dad's cousin insisted that his youngest daughter and I go eat at White Castle. He was appalled that I didn't know what the great White Castle slider was. For the record, I still wish I didn't know what it was. He gave her some cash, sent us on our merry way, and it being 1987 and all we rode our bikes through Whiting, IN to the White Castle around the corner. My cousin ordered us sliders, I made a comment that it stunk when we walked in, and I took one bite and refused to eat anymore. I made her take me anywhere but there. So, we went about a block over got Green Rivers and chili cheese fries. We left Indiana in 1990, and for the most part I have avoided the stench and grease of White Castle. I was most thankful to not having to be in the backseat of a car with my Dad after his eating a handful of sliders.
Well, my Dad has never got over his love affair with White Castle, and for the past few years he has had a shooting conference in Ohio. He drives out there and makes a stop in Indiana on the way back. This year was a Legion meeting in Kentucky, with a stop in IN on the way back to this part of Dixie. Guess what he comes back with? Yup, a crave case of White Castle. He then wraps them in plastic wrap, freezes them, and then reheats them for later consumption. Here is where things always get nasty.
White Castle from the freezer section at the grocery just isn't the same, and for someone who doesn't eat that sludge the smell isn't even as noxious. Whenever Dad heats his sliders in the microwave they stink up the entire house, but that isn't even the worst part. The horrendous part is the after effects of sliders. They cause nuclear level gas on anyone who dares eat them. I have never known someone to not clear out a room, building, three-story office building, or prison complex after consuming such grease. And you guessed it . . . Dad clears out the house, small town we live in, most possibly the county, and I would even say that there might have been an air alert or two after his munchage. Get the picture? Dad finished off his sliders early this year, but before doing so we had some nice exchanges. Particularly the night he fed one to the geriatric dog. Then, one turned into two. The dog also had gas. Yay me!
I looked at Dad and said, "Only toothless rednecks married to their cousins,the criminally insane, and the po' eat White Castle."
His response, "And your father."
On that note, my denture wearing father who is not criminally insane, married to his cousin, and only part redneck can be chalked up as nothing more than a product of his times. I shudder.
The short end is my Dad grew up in Indiana. He grew up on the homegrown smell, aroma (if you want to call it that), and allure of White Castle. White Castle is hard to find in most of the country, and when I moved to Long Island all those years ago he was beside himself with joy to see a White Castle. I was not. I never ate there. Honestly, you can even ask my old roommate about the night we went there and she scarfed down far too many sliders, put chicken rings on her fingers as jewelry, and made "boobie sliders" by placing them on her chest. Clearly, someone was DRUNKY DRUNKY. I sucked on a Diet Coke and attempted to hold my breath, and the only time I ever ended up in there was with drunk people.
Shortly after I moved to the Island my friend from Puerto Rico told me his highly dramatic tale of trying White Castle one day because the bus stop was there. He looked at me, very appalled, and asked me how people could eat that crap? He proceeded to tell me about a very tall and loud friend of ours who he also asked about the White Castle nastiness. That tall friend grew up in Indiana, so he knows first hand of this White Castle foolishness. Apparently, he asked Puerto Rico if he was having money problems, proclaimed if he was he would loan him money so that he wouldn't have to die eating that nastiness. He then told him that only the stupid and poor eat there. I have to agree.
So . . .I never ate that sludge. When we moved to Indiana in 1987 my Dad's cousin insisted that his youngest daughter and I go eat at White Castle. He was appalled that I didn't know what the great White Castle slider was. For the record, I still wish I didn't know what it was. He gave her some cash, sent us on our merry way, and it being 1987 and all we rode our bikes through Whiting, IN to the White Castle around the corner. My cousin ordered us sliders, I made a comment that it stunk when we walked in, and I took one bite and refused to eat anymore. I made her take me anywhere but there. So, we went about a block over got Green Rivers and chili cheese fries. We left Indiana in 1990, and for the most part I have avoided the stench and grease of White Castle. I was most thankful to not having to be in the backseat of a car with my Dad after his eating a handful of sliders.
Well, my Dad has never got over his love affair with White Castle, and for the past few years he has had a shooting conference in Ohio. He drives out there and makes a stop in Indiana on the way back. This year was a Legion meeting in Kentucky, with a stop in IN on the way back to this part of Dixie. Guess what he comes back with? Yup, a crave case of White Castle. He then wraps them in plastic wrap, freezes them, and then reheats them for later consumption. Here is where things always get nasty.
White Castle from the freezer section at the grocery just isn't the same, and for someone who doesn't eat that sludge the smell isn't even as noxious. Whenever Dad heats his sliders in the microwave they stink up the entire house, but that isn't even the worst part. The horrendous part is the after effects of sliders. They cause nuclear level gas on anyone who dares eat them. I have never known someone to not clear out a room, building, three-story office building, or prison complex after consuming such grease. And you guessed it . . . Dad clears out the house, small town we live in, most possibly the county, and I would even say that there might have been an air alert or two after his munchage. Get the picture? Dad finished off his sliders early this year, but before doing so we had some nice exchanges. Particularly the night he fed one to the geriatric dog. Then, one turned into two. The dog also had gas. Yay me!
I looked at Dad and said, "Only toothless rednecks married to their cousins,the criminally insane, and the po' eat White Castle."
His response, "And your father."
On that note, my denture wearing father who is not criminally insane, married to his cousin, and only part redneck can be chalked up as nothing more than a product of his times. I shudder.
Comments
There's just no accountin' for taste.