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| Blogs > Fallic40 > Seeing Red ....... |
For What We Are About To Receive ......
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For What We Are About To Receive ...... Thursday was the annual Christmas Lunch in the cafeteria downstairs from my office: and what can I say but catered food is catered food is catered food. It all has the same taste; no matter whether is from the Ritz or the Little Sisters of the Road half way house. Mass produced mash potato tastes the same no matter what, and it has the same texture no matter what. Now before everyone starts going on about what an ungrateful bastard I am; think back to the catered events that you have attended. My ex-mother-in-law owned a catering company and their food was very good. But as good as it was, the taste still came across as institutional. ********************************************************************************************************************************** This gave me a horrible flashback to ………….doodlooo, doodlooo, doodlooo, doodlooo ………… school dinners. Now I do not mean your cool arse, not good for you, junk foody type stodge that my youngest is able to procure in the high school cafeteria these days. There were no tater-tots, hamburgers, pizza rolls or wiener wraps. (I loved wiener wraps when I went to high school here.) We are talking about the honest-to-goodness offal ladled out in bubbling, steaming masses by hairnet wearing, bloodstained apron toting “lunch ladies” who had probably failed to gain that prison kitchen job earlier in life and so were reduced to serving the adolescent fodder coming through a British Comprehensive School (and let me just say that we were indeed a very grotty bunch). Just imagine me, your favorite schoolboy in his brown baggies, brown Doc Martins, brown jacket, gold shirt and brown/gold stripe school tie (not by choice - I think Stevie Wonder picked our school uniforms). I had me a ‘70s haircut and a ‘70’s footy hooligan attitude. I was a bad man; a little bit of Michael Kelso and lot of Stephen Hyde ‒ no Eric Foreman or Fez though. And also imagine the culinary delicacies coming my way: fish sticks (fish fingers in the UK) served with stewed tomatoes (probably from an industrial 55 gallon drum), shepherd’s pie that just might have been made from a real German Shepherds, anything (and everything) served with mashed swede (basically boiled rutabaga), desserts of all makes and models served with custard ‒ complete with congealed top layer with a taste and consistency of liquid latex. I can still savor the flavor. It tastes like Formica and the Seventies. It tastes like harvest gold and avocado. And they were still better than my mum’s dinners: liver casserole, yummy, yum, yum ………….doodlooo, doodlooo, doodlooo, doodlooo ………… ********************************************************************************************************************************** So there I was standing in line (another quick flashback to school lunches ‒ Thursday must be the day that the cool go to the front of the line) with my new boss and a couple of the other shipping guys, clutching my magic red ticket with my name on it so that I could get my meal. I was almost wondering if my magic ticket would get me taken on a tour of the catering company with a rather maniacal paedophobe in a top hat. My boss asked the head lunch lady if someone was going to read us some scripture (she was blessed with a true lunch lady sense of humor and failed to get the joke). I was handed a paper plate with the special three compartments; which is brilliant if there are going to be three portions of something served (but there was much more to choose from than that). Pwoooooot: an ice cream scoop of 100% genuine mashed potato made from artificial potato (or soap?) flakes, a soupcon of imitation garlic flavoring, salt substitute and artificial creamer magically appeared in section one of my cardboard carry-all. It was hurled there by an elderly lady with lumberjack forearms and a demeanor that seemed to say “fuck with me if you dare,” or perhaps it said “ask me for more potatoes and this ice cream scoop is going up your arse and I am going to tweak the handle several times for shits and giggles.” As an added bonus, she added a special flourish and smashed a dent in my mash pile: sort of a similar move to what you see with bricklayers ‒ a flick of the wrist to put mortar on the brick and then a quick side swoop to add some to the side. It was journeyman level artistry. An equally formidable matron was manning the mixed veg station and I was immediately served up a heaping spoonful of peas with carrots and corn or was that corn with peas and carrots or was that carrots…. Anyway it would be the source of much color and texture at a later event. Whatever it was, it was hogging space that I was planning for better tasting fare. Then we had several salads of dubious composition including a noodle salad that seemed to have been designed by Antonio Gaudi ‒ a combination of interesting looks and mysterious ingredients. Now with a smidge (more than a skoshe and less than a tad ‒ in case you are wondering) of the three salads filling compartment number two, I was running into a capacity situation and I had yet to arrive at the station serving the stars of the show: namely turkey and/or ham. I need not have worried. I arrived at the meat serving station where the “chef” in toque and Birkenstocks offered me a choice of ham or turkey. I asked for some of each. Obviously, this individual was deeply attached to his meat. A single slice of turkey from the world’s tiniest turkey was delicately slid on to my plate. Later discussions gave rise to the theory that this was actually rattlesnake (the other, other white meat). The shape was right, the size was right, and since I have eaten rattler when camping in Eastern Oregon, the taste was pretty fuckin' right on. I just hope that it was free-range rattlesnake. Perhaps, by the gleam in the server’s bloodshot eyes, he thought that he was serving caviar since he was very enthusiastic about my particular itty-bitty piece of turkey. Or perhaps he moonlights selling polyester suits to people “ah sir, the powder blue is you, perhaps a ruffled shirt to complete the ensemble?” Anyhow, I now had a half-dollar size piece of turkey. The confused look on my face was mistaken for complete satisfaction by the server and he then carefully passed over several very tasty looking pieces of ham to find one that was mainly fat and skin. Once again, this was prized off of the bottom of the container and placed on my paper plate. And there was still plenty of room on my plate. Perhaps this was how Jesus fed the multitudes with only five little fishes? On to the gravy bar: this was actually pretty good looking (and dare I say it, pretty tasty) gravy and I filled the specially crafted little dent that server number one had put in my mashed potatoes specifically for the gravy. I then went and got a black board eraser like roll and a frozen butter pat before going and getting some cranberry sauce. Again one had to be judicious with this since I didn’t want to make the turkey feel inadequate by overwhelming it with more than one cranberry. I was offered the choice of milk, fruit punch, lemonade, or kiwi-guava-grape-ugly fruit juice. Suddenly it really did seem like a flashback ‒ perhaps I could roll out my sleeping mat and take a nap afterwards. It was a trick question because it left me with my plate of veggies and mash and salad with its tiny turkey adornment in one hand and my paper cup of fruit punch in the other. And I still had to select a dessert…… Suddenly a voice said “would you like to select a tart?” Immediately I was looking around for a variety of blondes, brunettes and red-heads perched carefully on bar stools with their skirts riding up and their stiletto heels locked onto the bar rail to hold them in place as they were finishing up their fourth or fifth pint of lager. ********************************************************************************************************************************** Special note to the ladies ‒ guys don’t go for the barflies because they are drunk, but rather because they taste like beer ‒ and everything is better when it tastes like beer. I have, honest to God, turned down a barfly because she was drunk on Corona and I hate the taste of Corona. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming …… ********************************************************************************************************************************** What I was actually being offered was a selection of pastries that, no fucking lie, must have been baked in an easy-bake oven. A quarter was used as a template ‒ I am not exaggerating here. My cherry tart (always had a thing for the red heads) was truth in advertising. It had one cherry: one very lonely cherry sitting in a bed of red goo. Now I had to complete the juggling act and get my cherry tart, sitting hiding in the corner of its dessert dish home, from the dessert table to our dining table while not letting go of my cup of juice or my entrée. This must be one of those prison dilemmas that one hears about. I kept hearing “you gonna eat yo’ co’nbread?” over and over in my head. And in closing, I know that I sound like and ungrateful whining brat here as I make fun of my Salvation Army (I think) catered lunch, but then again, we have a fantastic cafeteria at work that really serves up some amazing food (my high school age would be jealous) at a great price. And they were not the ones catering the meal. What the fuck was that all about? ********************************************************************************************************************************** And a final word on LumberJill’s mashed potatoes: one of the guys I was sitting with looked at me and just matter-of-factly stated the opinion that the mashed potatoes at the state pen in Stayton were much better than what we had. And since he had a shiv and fork in his hands, I really did not see any point in disagreeing.  |
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POODLE ~ I'm glad you got to hear my reactions to this. Now I need to use the loo!  / *hugs* /  This is my blog - [blog _Safira]. There are many like it, but this one is mine. RECOMMENDED READING: A F F The Only Site For Me
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POODLE ~ I'm glad you got to hear my reactions to this. Now I need to use the loo! / *hugs* / And you know what; it was really good to hear you just laughing away. After all, is laughter not the best medicine? Poo
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POODLE ~ Okay I'm somewhat concerned that you shortened your nickname to a function associated with "loo."  /  This is my blog - [blog _Safira]. There are many like it, but this one is mine. RECOMMENDED READING: A F F The Only Site For Me
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doodlooo, doodlooo, doodlooo, doodlooo Giggling profusely...now doesn't that just bring back memories...LOL I could invite you to my company luncheon, it's fantastic. Each different code is responsible for a different food group. All homemade wonders...always delicious. Yummy.... (and yes, you're right...catered is catered, can't hold a torch to homemade) I make mistakes, I am out of control & at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best. ~Marilyn
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POODLE ~ Okay I'm somewhat concerned that you shortened your nickname to a function associated with "loo." /
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doodlooo, doodlooo, doodlooo, doodlooo Giggling profusely...now doesn't that just bring back memories...LOL I could invite you to my company luncheon, it's fantastic. Each different code is responsible for a different food group. All homemade wonders...always delicious. Yummy.... (and yes, you're right...catered is catered, can't hold a torch to homemade) We are supposedly planning a departmental potluck this week but somehow I have been given advance notice that three of my cohorts are going to be laid off on Friday which somewhat diminishes the event. Now what food group are you in charge of: beer, beans, bacon, pork rinds or barbecue?
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Desert...and I'm surprised you didn't get THAT right away... I'm making a sweet goey wonderful concoction call Blueberry Dump...hmmmmm YUMMY. I make mistakes, I am out of control & at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best. ~Marilyn
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Astute, witty, wry, just plain well written. After a year (maybe two?) hiatus from the bacchanalia, breast and macro-anatomy fest that is AdultFriendFinder I may just have to pop in more often and let you entertain me :thumbs:
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12/17/2008 11:50 am |
Just be careful that you do not complain to the powers that be at work, or YOU will be in charge of arrange the feast next time! We have a small company, so our holiday celebration was a little easier to manage...baked brie, chicken satay, flank steak skewers...and the most amazing truffles...omg...better than sex. I swear.  "All you'll get from strangers is surface pleasantry or indifference. Only someone who loves you will criticize you." - Judith Crist, crack film critic
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