I found myself waiting for my brother at the mechanic this morning, and the mechanic had a snack machine, and the snack machine had carrot cake. And I wanted carrot cake.
I pull a dollar out of my wallet and the machine feeds it back to me. I folded the dollar and reinserted it. The machine resent it. I folded the dollar another way...the machine did not like that way either.
I tried another dollar. The machine tried my patience.
After the third dollar wouldn't work, I gave up. I didn't want the stupid, moist carrot cake with the lovely cream cheese incing anyway. Nope. Didn't want it. Not at all.
I wonder if the party store has carrot cake. I'll have to check when it opens.
Showing posts with label morning snacks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label morning snacks. Show all posts
Monday, September 30, 2019
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Vittles
There were two things in particular which I loved to hear me Grandpa Joe say and they were both associated with working for him. They were, "Let's get that coffee," and, "Let's get them vittles," whenever he decided it was time for a break.
It struck me even back then that his words sounded almost as though we had to hunt them, had to track them down, as if the coffee pot didn't just sit there on a table by the office or that the snacks weren't right alongside it. The vittles were the snacks which he always had me or me Pops or me Uncle John buy for the morning coffee break. Joe paid for them; I think he genuinely liked treating us, but I don't doubt at all he looked forward to them too.
Vittles were the height of the workday for a young boy like me. There were always single serve and two for everyone, an assortment of cupcakes, pies, donuts, and cinnamon rolls. I hoped every morning for a Hostess French Apple pie, which was really only their apple pie with raisins added, but it seemed significantly different. Joe and Pops and me and whomever else was there would lay into them vittles like we hadn't ate in days. Uncle John rarely did, and I don't know why. He would buy a paper and sit nearby reading it as the rest of us fell into sugar induced stupors. At times I wondered if something was wrong with him, but that was surely the kid in me thinking such stuff.
It was 15, maybe 20 minutes of the day. But man, I miss gettin' them vittles.
It struck me even back then that his words sounded almost as though we had to hunt them, had to track them down, as if the coffee pot didn't just sit there on a table by the office or that the snacks weren't right alongside it. The vittles were the snacks which he always had me or me Pops or me Uncle John buy for the morning coffee break. Joe paid for them; I think he genuinely liked treating us, but I don't doubt at all he looked forward to them too.
Vittles were the height of the workday for a young boy like me. There were always single serve and two for everyone, an assortment of cupcakes, pies, donuts, and cinnamon rolls. I hoped every morning for a Hostess French Apple pie, which was really only their apple pie with raisins added, but it seemed significantly different. Joe and Pops and me and whomever else was there would lay into them vittles like we hadn't ate in days. Uncle John rarely did, and I don't know why. He would buy a paper and sit nearby reading it as the rest of us fell into sugar induced stupors. At times I wondered if something was wrong with him, but that was surely the kid in me thinking such stuff.
It was 15, maybe 20 minutes of the day. But man, I miss gettin' them vittles.
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