Before interstate freeways and fast food joints, we traveled from northern Illinois to Lake Mille Lacs in Minnesota for a two-week vacation every year. My grandparents had a summer place on the lake and a winter place in Arizona. On the current interstate system, it is about 500 miles.
We would be packed, ready to go and in the car by 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning. My parents thought it would be easier to travel with young children if they slept for the first several hours. So as we three kids shared the back seat, dad would turn on some cool jazz very low on the radio and we would drift off to the smell of both parents smoking.
Finally, it was time to stop for breakfast around 6:00. We always ate at a diner-type restaurant, as that was the only thing available in the late 1950’s. The archetypical waitress would take our breakfast order.
My sister, who sat in the middle of the back seat, always got carsick so she ordered tea and toast. My brother ordered cereal then she would turn to me. “A bowl of chili and a root beer, please.” An eyebrow was raised as she looked over to my dad for confirmation.
“She wants a bowl of chili and a root beer,” dad said with a shrug of his shoulders.
She left shaking her head. Even at different diners, this happened every year.
Whenever I am under extreme stress, all I want is a bowl of chili and a root beer. It is my comfort food.
Much to Michael’s dismay, I want chili and root beer to be served following my memorial service. He suggests my second favorite food: smoked salmon.
No. I want chili and root beer, please.
Next: Nissen Fundoplication
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