RRN Online Volume 368

June 21 '03

Volume 368

Ketchup Considered Do You Need Fries With That

Maybe, it was because there were very few people in Gino's, a well-known fast food restaurant in

Greenville, MS, a few Monday nights ago that I happened to notice the large helping of ketchup.

I had skipped lunch that day and decided to eat supper earlier than normal. Normal, for me, runs between six-thirty and seven-thirty every evening, and it was about a quarter past five when I placed an order for the after five p.m. Special, a burger, an order of fries, and a coke.

Maybe, it was because there were very few people in Gino's, a well-known fast food restaurant in Greenville, MS, a few Monday nights ago that I happened to notice the large helping of ketchup. I had skipped lunch that day and decided to eat supper earlier than normal. Normal, for me, runs between six-thirty and seven-thirty every evening, and it was about a quarter past five when I placed an order for the after five p.m. Special, a burger, an order of fries, and a coke.

I once dined fairly regularly with a coworker named John Carter when he and I worked with a group of stores in Tennessee. It was rare that John would ever go out for dinner before 8:30 p.m., and he preferred nine o’clock but often had trouble finding a restaurant open after nine o’clock. In fact, one or two turned him down because he got there at the weekday closing time. However, I digress.

The large helping of Heinz ketchup was mounded up on a paper napkin, in front of an elderly couple. I also noticed neither of them appeared to have missed any meals in quite a while, but it wasn’t their size and it wasn’t their age that caught my attention. I failed to see how many packets of ketchup she had opened to create the ketchup mountain but it must have been a dozen or more. Imagine a three-inch diameter circle of ketchup rising to a height of two or more inches, and you’ll get an idea of the quantity.

At the time I noticed the ketchup, my eye had been drawn to her hand movements as she shook the peppershaker furiously over the mountain of ketchup, creating the effect of black snow on the upper elevations.

"To each his own," I thought, as I concentrated on eating the food in front of me before it got cold.

Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about that pile of ketchup.

"Why in the world would anyone pile up ketchup on a paper napkin? Doesn’t she know it’ll soak through the napkin?" I wondered. "Maybe, she likes the taste of napkins, because I’m sure some of the ketchup will dissolve part of the napkin. Why didn’t she just wait until her hamburger was ready, and she could have mounded her ketchup on the inside portion of the waxed paper that was wrapped around the burger?"

Gino’s serves most everything on something that’s disposable. For those of us who grew up eating in restaurants and short-order diners where practically everything was served on commercial china and stainless flatware, it took a while for us to adjust to the flimsiness of paper and plastic. I’ve learned to eat fries (I’m still avoiding the F-word when I refer to potato strips fried in hot oil) without a fork, and I usually build my own mound of ketchup using perhaps three or four packets of ketchup and dredge an occasional fry through the ketchup.

Not too many months ago as I happened to be in Gino’s, I remembered that whenever Billy Haney ate with Barbara and me at Gino’s, he always sprinkled ketchup on his fries before eating them. I once ate mine similarly, too, but my last remembrance of doing so would have been in my college days. As I was about to open the first packet of ketchup and thought of the "Billy Haney Method" I opted to drizzle the ketchup over the fries. Somehow, they seemed tastier that way, and I’ve been eating them in that fashion ever since. I’m sure I’m going though a phase or something.

The nearby ketchup-mountain couple did a pretty good job of reducing the mountain to a molehill before they were done. They were tidying up as I was leaving, so I didn’t get a good look as to how much ketchup was wasted.

I’ve eaten in Gino’s on a number of occasions and have seen people of all ages eating there, but I must have drawn in the elderly the other night, either that or it was night-out for the local nursing home residents. However, it may have simply been the early hour I was dining. Two silver-haired women sat in a booth behind me. Another elderly couple later sat at a table between the jukebox and me, one of whom ordered a catfish plate and the other a hamburger.

If there’s anything positive about staying away from home and eating alone, it must be that it gives one time to take in one’s surroundings. Gino’s is decorated for the fifties. All the songs on the jukebox are from the fifties and sixties. And, just like I remember the fifties, the jukebox is programmed to randomly play a tune ever so often, and it also plays customer selected tunes for those who are especially nostalgic and have a few quarters to burn.

I was sort of waning nostalgic myself as I listened to an old tune and must have been staring glassy eyed in the direction of the couple between the jukebox and me when I refocused and saw the woman squeezing ketchup on one of her fries. It wasn’t until she repeated the action that I became interested in what she was doing.

I have watched bowlers, baseball pitchers, golfers, tennis players, all with particular, if not peculiar, styles of delivery and follow-through with their respective motions, but none worked more deliberately or with more precision than did the woman squeezing ketchup on her fries.

She would pick up a fry with her left hand, cradling it much as one might hold a fork, then holding the ketchup packet in her right hand, she’d start at the end of the fry held between a thumb and two fingers and lay down a stripe of ketchup all the way to the other end of the fry, then eat it, and repeat the methodical process again. It was a sight to behold, poetry in motion.

I had her pegged for one of those people who eat all of one of the portions on her plate before eating the next portion, and then the next portion, until everything is eaten, but she stopped eating fries and ketchup midway through the portion and unwrapped her hamburger and took a few bites of it. She was still eating when I left, but each time she ate a fry, she squeezed a layer of ketchup on top of it exactly like she did all the preceding fries and then ate it. Based on my observations, I doubt she wasted any ketchup, by opening up too many packets.

Whenever I entertain notions of owning a restaurant, I find that observing how some folks eat soon dampens my enthusiasm. Though, I keep thinking I’d do well in a restaurant that served only dough burgers, fries, and cokes. I haven’t decided whether I’d offer the customers a choice of condiments or serve all the dough burgers with mustard, pickle, and onion. If customers picked off the pickles or the onions, I’d probably be like the "Soup Nazi" of Seinfeld fame and throw them out or refuse to serve them again. Crazy? No. Many a man has been successful in the food industry by doing one thing and doing it really well, but I might have to give the customer a choice of condiments.

I may start a dough burger franchise when I retire, and if I do, I’ll surely be on the lookout for folks doing strange things with ketchup.

Vacation Photos Where's RRN Been

Vacation time has slipped up on me, and until last weekend, I’d not given any thought to asking the readership of RRN to contribute a photo of one or more readers holding an issue of RRN either en route to a vacation destination or else onsite.

Several readers responded to a similar invitation last year. Ridge Rider News calls this feature, "Where’s RRN Been" and a number of newspapers and businesses encourage patrons similarly.

The local newspaper in Pontotoc publishes vacation/ travel photos of person packing the "Pontotoc Progress" on their trip, and Reed’s department store in Tupelo, MS, purchases ad space in the "Daily Journal" to show vacationing folks wearing Reed’s T-shirts. I think the photo idea is a fun activity and encourage readers to either email an image or send in a photo to show others where Ridge Rider News has been.

I didn’t exactly remember last year’s request on my own, rather, my cousin, Rebecca Franklin, handed me the photo below, saying, "I meant to get this to you last year."

Rebecca and our Uncle, Lamar Carter of New York City, were in Madrid Spain when the photo was snapped, but neither of them could recall the name of the restaurant when we were together for the Bock Brown wedding in Nashville, TN, last weekend.

I look forward to hearing from other readers on vacation this summer.

Dollars Last First Published In '98

The work that I do for SUPERVALU required my presence in Gulfport, MS, for much of the first two weeks in February. Therefore, I had the occasion to eat out more than I normally do. One of the restaurants where I ate is named Montana's. It specializes in seafood and barbecue. I have never learned to appreciate seafood, rather I hold to the notion that there were certain dietary restrictions of the Old Testament Jews that remain sensible.

Eating shrimp, which scavenge the ocean's floor, may be less appealing to seafood fanciers if they consider they are eating the sea's equivalent to a buzzard or crow. My normal aversion to seafood left me with barbecue to dine on at Montana's. I was not feeling too adventurous that evening, so I selected a barbecue pork sandwich and side dishes of slaw and fries. My boss and another employee of our Retail Systems department in Atlanta were with me. Both of them decided upon sandwiches. We were eating lighter fare because it was later than we normally eat an evening meal, and we did not want a heavy meal just before retiring for the night.

There was nothing out of the ordinary that happened that evening until we stopped at the cashier's stand to pay for our meals. It is normal company policy of SUPERVALU, when traveling in a group, the senior member of the group is to pay for the meal expenses. Since we are each reimbursed for the expense, it does not matter whether protocol is followed or not, but my boss is pretty much a stickler for following this particular mandate. He chose to pay for our meals with cash and asked for a receipt. The cashier did not have a receipt book and asked if it would be okay for her to document the expense on the back of a Montana's business card. My boss agreed to the conditions.

For no particular reason, I watched the young woman carefully letter the amount of the evening meal for the three of us. Perhaps, I envied her ability to write legibly, since my handwriting has gotten rather shaky and at times illegible even to me. I find myself getting closer and closer to the point of refusing to fill out the required forms to register at a motel or health clinic. If the dexterity of my right hand continues to decline, I shall get a doctor's validation of my handicap and begin informing all who require me to fill out a form that I can no longer oblige them.

The young cashier wrote the total amount of the meals on the back of the card. The amount was twenty dollars and seven cents. I first noticed how she formed the numeral seven. It is the same way that I form the numeral.

The cashier formed her seven as 7. On the word processor I am using, that is about as close as I can show a 7 with a horizontal line through it, unless I use my personal script. There are not that many of us who use this technique to differentiate a 7 from a 1 or 2, and I take notice whenever I find a kindred spirit who does practice the preciseness of carefully formed numberings.

I was about to comment on the use of the non-typical 7 when she completed writing the amount. The final result resembled 20.07 $. Having taught Mathematics in High School, I have seen a lot of written numbers, but I had never seen a dollar amount written with the dollar sign following the numbers. My curiosity compelled me to ask why. The cashier responded that was the way she wrote down a dollar amount.

Sensing combativeness in her perky reply, I drew my rapier and we crossed swords.

I countered her move with the thrust, "So, your way is right and the rest of the world is wrong? Are you starting a movement to have everyone change over to your method?"

As we parried, our slender, steel blades rang with the clarity of fine crystal.

Her reply was terse, "Well, it is logical."

"Logical? Logical? How is that logical?" I thought.

It was then, in the heat of the battle that I drew upon a cowardly tactic. I might have to settle for a draw, but this was a fight I did not want to lose.

I drew a bit of blood with the remark, "Logical! Since when do women use logic?"

It was a cheap shot, and I regretted having said it. I know that women are capable of using logic, but I also know that for most, emotion is the primary, persuasive force relied upon for reasoning and decision-making.

"Think about how you say it. Dollars comes last," she jabbed back.

Oh, that hurt! She was right. It was logical. Well, I knew I would not win this match, and after all, discretion is the better part of valor, so we agreed to a truce.

I could admit that when whole dollars are expressed she was correct in her logic. I knew, and I think she knew that her rebellion would never succeed. Yet, the young and passionate are often found to move contrary to the norm, blinded by the idealism of the concept, oblivious to the pitfalls ahead. For most, the idealism of youth is dimmed by marriage, family, and career concerns. Soon, idealism is trodden down by traditionalism. Occasionally, the idealistic notions of one become the idealism of many and change occurs. Don't expect to soon read about accountants and others placing dollar signs after their amounts, but don't discount it as silly. After all, the British thought it silly that the Colonists wanted to form their own nation and govern themselves.

Note: In celebrating the Seventh Anniversary of RRN, the preceding is offered as the third in a series of selected articles that first appeared five years ago in this newsletter.

Lost Newsletter December 27, 1996

I am not placing any blame on Felicia for my oversight, but readers can thank her for my recent discovery of a lost newsletter. Oh, it was published and distributed, but because it was not among those I had stored in binders over the years, it was not counted at the time I switched over to the present volume numbering system. Therefore, to accurately account for all issues, and since I can't very easily renumber all the issues since incorporating the new numbering system, I have elected to interrupt the June sequence this year and omit Volume 365. So, unless, I one day discover I've miscounted the issues along the way, this issue is really the 366^th consecutive issue of Ridge Rider News. (Update 11/29/2004: Two more issues found, making this issue Vol.368)

It was just about a week ago that Felicia reminded me she has a July birthday. She also provided a suggestion as to what she'd like her Uncle Wayne to give her.

"I want a copy of all the issues of Ridge Rider News," she said coyly.

"You do?" I questioned.

"I don't know if I have all of them on diskettes where I could print them. Of course, I've got hard copies in binders, and I think I've got all the issues on diskettes, somewhere, but I may not be able to find them," I explained, hoping to build up a good case for my not granting her birthday request.

Yet, as I thought about her request, I remembered that the year I began to make this newsletter available on the Internet, I did not upload any issues from 1996, due to limited disk space on the website. Since June is the anniversary month for Ridge Rider News, I felt that one way to celebrate seven years of publications would be to have all seven years available on the Internet. Thus, my search for the diskette containing the first issues began.

I had to dig deeply into the boxes of diskettes stored in my computer desk, but I managed to find the old files and began to systematically upload the issues to the Internet. The whole process took me one entire weekend plus three more nights.

For years, I had thought the December 16^th issue in 1996 was the final one for the year, but as I soon discovered, one of the issues on the diskette was for December 27^th. However, that issue was not in the binder with all the other 1996 issues, and as such, was never counted in the yearly totals. So, technically, it was never lost, but until last week it was never counted, either.

Bodock Beau Senatorial Dilemma

With political election primaries nearing, the truth of the following rises above the humorous thought.

While walking down the street one day a female senator is tragically hit by a truck and dies.

Her soul arrives in Heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance. "Welcome to Heaven," says St. Peter. "Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do with you."

"No problem, just let me in," says the lady.

"Well, I'd like to, but I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is have you spend one day in Hell and one in Heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity."

"Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in Heaven," says the senator.

"I'm sorry but we have our rules." And with that, St. Peter escorts her to the elevator and she goes down, down, down to Hell.

The doors open and she finds herself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a club and standing in front of it are all her friends and other politicians who had worked with her, everyone is very happy and in evening dress. They run to greet her, hug her, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at expense of the people. They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster and caviar. Also present is the Devil, who really is a very friendly guy who has a good time dancing and telling jokes.

They are having such a good time that, before she realizes it, it is time to go. Everyone gives her a big hug and waves while the elevator rises. The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on Heaven where St. Peter is waiting for her.

"Now it's time to visit Heaven," He says.

So 24 hours pass with the head of state joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time. Before she realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by.

St. Peter returns and says, "Well then, you've spent a day in Hell and another in Heaven. Now choose your eternity."

She reflects for a minute, then the senator answers: "Well, I would never have said it, I mean Heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in Hell."

So Saint Peter escorts her to the elevator and she goes down, down, down to Hell. Now the doors of the elevator open and she is in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage. She sees all her friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags. The Devil comes over to her and lays his arm on her neck.

"I don't understand," stammers the senator. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and club and we ate lobster and caviar and danced and had a great time. Now all there is a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable.

The Devil looks at her, smiles and says, "Yesterday we were campaigning. Today you voted for us!"

Submitted by Tami Harrell

Reminder: Make sure to mark your calendar for July 19^th. That's the date of the annual party to celebrate another year of publication. There are, as yet, no plans for formal entertainment, but the food will be Southern Fried Catfish with all the trimmings.

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