“Yah a shit eatah, Jan!” That is exactly what my step-dad, a World War Two veteran from Boston twenty years her senior, said to my mom every time she suggested using a canned or jarred item instead of making it from scratch.
He wasn’t wrong. My mom and I had been shit eaters for 13 years before she met John. Some of my happiest childhood memories involve eating “bad” food, and I’m not just talking tator tot day in elementary school. My mom and I graced the drive-throughs of Hollywood, FL every Saturday and Sunday evening, and sometimes more often.
Our Saturday routine always ended with KFC, and that is back when we called it Kentucky Fried Chicken. People weren’t afraid to use entire words in the 70s and 80s. We always got two two-piece dark meals with two mashed potatoes and no coleslaw. Back then the only sides KFC had were coleslaw, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob. They also had dinner rolls instead of biscuits. They were dark times.
Every Saturday morning, we would wake up and get dressed right away. My mom would carry our laundry basket to the rusted green Chevy we called our car. The laundry would be in the back seat and I would be in the front seat. We were off to drop off our laundry at City-Wide Fabric Care on Washington and Dixie in lovely Hollywood, Florida. My mom made very little money from her job as a receptionist at Children’s Medical Center, but she’d be damned if she would spend her time off doing laundry, especially since she would need to sit in a laundromat to do it. Our rental duplex on Taylor street and Dixie Highway did not come with a washer and dryer.
After we dropped off the laundry, it was breakfast time. Not McDonalds, or back home for some cereal. No. We went out for a proper hot breakfast every weekend day. WAGS was a favorite of ours. They had the best strawberry French toast. We also enjoyed Kith and Kin, one of the first quirky southern joints to serve beverages in jars. That is where I learned to love grits.
With our bellies full, sometimes too full, we were on our way to our next task – grocery shopping at Pantry Pride. We didn’t learn about the heaven that is Publix until my mom married my step-dad. He always shopped at Publix. Anyway, while we were at Pantry Pride, we would always buy frozen meals for dinner during the week. Sometimes, we were able to get FANCY frozen meals that included things like beef burgundy or chicken divan.
By the time we put the groceries away and did the weekly vacuuming and dusting, it was time to pick up the laundry. Mom drove us back over to City-Wide and we both went in to get the laundry. My mom’s work clothes, mostly polyester pants and blouses, were on hangers and in plastic. I carried them to the car and hung them as best as I could from the tiny, green plastic hook in the back seat. Mom picked up the basket with fresh, folded clothes and towels inside and “Patty” written in sharpy on the outside of the basket. Our last name was Petty, and my mom’s first name was Janet, but the laundry lady always called her Patty.
KFC was usually our next stop. With the laundry safely in the back seat, I sat up front and performed my official duty as food protector. I had to hold on to both KFC meal boxes so they would not go flying if mom hit the brakes too hard. I’m pretty sure we did not wear seat belts back then, so I’m not sure how I didn’t go flying.
On some weekends, my teen brother would come for a visit. Our father had custody of him and mom had me. Mom would have to drive to Miami on Friday nights to pick him up, and then drop him off on Sunday evenings. My dad was a giant dick to my mom and refused to help with transportation. By the time we got back to Hollywood from dropping my brother off in Miami, mom didn’t feel like cooking dinner at all, not even putting a fancy Le Menu or normal Swanson in the oven. So, a lot of times we would drive through Burger King on the way home. It was usually quick and allowed us to get home and eat our cheeseburgers while watching Sonny and Cher.
Except for that one Sunday. For some reason, the guy in the car in front of us was waiting FOREVER at the window for his food. My mom was getting impatient and doing those big sighs she would do when she was pissed. She was saying things to me like, “What did he order, a side of beef?” I shrugged and kept quiet, lest I say something to add to her foul mood. She ended up turning off the car to save gas, and that’s when it got really quiet.
Until the gentleman behind us spoke up. Just when the guy in front of us finally got his BAGS of food, he leaned out his car window and asked for ketchup. The man in the car behind us was not having it. He, too, had been waiting a long time for the man in front of us to get an order that he should have gone inside for. The man behind us leaned half of his body out of his car window and yelled, “GETCHO ketchup home MOTHER FUCK!”
As all yelling did, it scared the crap out of me. My mom started laughing so hard that she could barely see to move the car forward after Mr. Ketchup finally pulled away. She laughed when we got our food, and laughed all the way home. Now, whenever I go through a drive-through, I decline the offer of ketchup, telling them that I have plenty at home.
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