After a grueling day of arithmetic, there was nothing more exciting and inviting than getting that wonderful afterschool snack. And, I'm not talking about the dried fruit chips or the healthy apple that soccer moms today insist on. Nope, I'm talking about the out-and-out gross "mega calories from fat" treat that you could only pull off the racks from your favorite mom-and-pop grocery store. Screw the healthy stuff. Bring me the sugar-laden pastries. Besides, my mom was at work and miles away from our bowl of fruit.
Every afternoon, my neighborhood chum Leo and I would take whatever change we had in our pockets and head "around the corner." Now, we had two grocery stores at our convenience. Some butcher named Gene ran one and that was more of a place your mom would shop for dinner. Fresh meats and lots of canned vegetables. Not Del Monte or Libby's. Gene offered up the bargain basement variety of canned peas. By some company called Krasdale. If you were lucky, the creamed corn might have actually been vacuum packed within the past five years.
Since Gene's grocery was light on the heavy snacks, we always ventured a few storefronts down First Street to Charlie's Delicatessen. He had racks upon racks of baked goods, chips, and anything that was unreasonably bad for you. Besides, Charlie was a German guy and my family always preferred for me to patronize the "Dutchman." If there had been an Italian-run grocery store in our area, I'm sure Leo's parents would preferred he go there instead. But, I digress...
Charlie's snack racks definitely had to be on my dentist's hit list. There was nothing good there. At the same time, it was all good. Yummy, filling, and the type of food that just manufactured fat cells in your body. I had a few favorites.
Any bag of Tom's Chips was not one of them. In those days, you judged the merits of a grocery store by the brand of potato chips they offered. And you didn't mix brands. If you sold Tom's Chips, the store was low class. Probably in a crappy neighborhood. If you sold Wise Potato Chips, you were the equivalent of Nordstrom's in my eyes. Charlie had Wise. Done deal.
Actually, if I was in the mood for a non-sweet treat, I loved Cheez Waffles. Little salty waffle-like cracker sandwiches with "cheese" in the middle. I rationalized that this was all healthy, so it was okay to wolf down a whole bag. How many daily food requirements would I be meeting? Dairy, grain, starch. Cheez Waffles had it all. A complete meal all in itself. Except that probably wasn't real cheese. Or even Cheez Whiz. I didn't care. I chomped down on them nonetheless.
For the everyday sweet tooth and the future day cavity, there were Yodels. By the wonderful Drake's Cake company, which hopefully has a franchise in the afterlife. Admittedly, I probably haven't had a Drake's product since I was 10. No worries, before I hit that age, I consumed a lifetime supply. Yodels were these little chocolate and cream roll-ups. Dipped in even more chocolate. And you had to lick the wrapper because usually the chocolate had melted to that as well. You needed a bath after eating a package. The smarter kids in my neighborhood knew one thing. You didn't dare buy Yodels during the summer.
These chocolate hockey pucks went by different names. Sometimes, they were Ring Dings. Other times, they were Ding Dongs. The brand name was a variety of iterations on the bell concept. I didn't care. They always hit the spot. Now, Drake's did offer one twist on the Ring Ding/Ding Dong and that was a winner. Instead of the devil's food cake inside, there were a version with yellow cake and it was delicious. Always preferred, but rare to find. I apparently lived in a devil's food neighborhood.
To wash it all down, there was Yoo Hoo. The drink of champions. It was good enough for Yogi Berra. It was damn good enough for us. And there was even more rationalization at play here. After all, this was a milk product, right? And kids are supposed to drink more milk, right? Isn't that what President Kennedy just told us? This is probably why my dentist voted for Richard Nixon.
For some mystical reason, my Saturday afternoon purchase was always reserved for one very special snack.
A Slim Jim. Actually, two. Back then, they weren't that long. Probably six inches in length. I figured this was my protein requirement for the week. Because it was meat, right? Right????
I savored my two Slim Jims so much that I would eat them slowly. Craving every nitrate, morsel by morsel, as it slid down to whatever part of my stomach would try to process it. Every week, I'd run to Charlie's, get my Slim Jims, and then plop down in front of Grandma's TV to watch Charlie Chan Mystery Theater on Channel 5, Metromedia in New York. And I would slowly ease the "meat" out of the Slim Jims. I could make the two of them last for the entire show.
Truth be told, I still, from rare time to rare time, buy a Slim Jim. One day, I took it home and popped a Charlie Chan movie on the DVD.
It wasn't the same.
I went into the kitchen and got myself a fresh Bartlett pear.
Dinner last night: Beef ribs from Holy Cow.
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