I almost never eat at Chick-fil-A because it’s owned by a family of homophobic cock-waffles. But today I found myself marooned at a fast food-desert expressway exit with few options and a hankering to try the chain’s much advertised hot pepper, honey and pimento cheese chicken sandwich.
It wasn’t half bad, but as usual after consuming fast food of any type, I feel vaguely gross. Usually I go out of my way to avoid chains, but I’m trying to reduce my exposure to people while my immune system recovers, and non-chains tend not to have drive-thru or curbside service.
I snapped the photo of the jaunty crow pictured above at the local McDonald’s a while back. Teens tend to hang out in the parking lot, probably making it rich pickings for crows.
At first I thought it was sad that local teens had no better place to hang out, but of course there are lots of other places they could go, including the many nearby parks with scenic water views. They like hanging out at McDonald’s and cruising its parking lot to see and be seen. Maybe I would too if I wasn’t an old fart.
My parents went to high school in this same town in the 1960s. (This was long before it was large enough to warrant a fast food franchise.)
Years ago, I opened an old cookbook that belonged to my grandmother, and a handwritten note in my mom’s distinctive script fell out that read, “Mama, I’m meeting [dad’s name] at the Creamette.”
I showed it to my mom, who looked like the space-time continuum was disrupted as she read it. She explained that the Creamette was a burgers and shakes place where teens used to hang out in her high school days. I bet it was better than McDonald’s.
Open thread!
My Granny always kept a coffee can of bacon grease next to her stove and used it to cook just about everything. She started life as a Georgia farm girl during the Great Depression, so she had a “waste not, want not” outlook.