Last night’s debate, if you can call it that, left me speechless, dismayed and saddened.
I will leave it at that and talk about things that make me feel better.
I have tasted many milkshakes and the one that I love, and makes me feel satisfied is a UDF milkshake. Actually, I like the malts. Extra thick, please.
For those of you who aren’t from Norwood or Cincinnati, UDF stands for United Dairy Farmers. UDF began in Norwood and grew and grew. Ice cream milk, dairy products. It was where my mom hired people and I held my first job.
When I was growing up, periodically my dad would go to a Chevrolet dinner or a session meeting at the church.
Our bedrooms were on the second floor, my parent’s bedroom was downstairs.
On some lucky nights, after I’d gone to bed, I’d hear the front door open and the rustle of a brown paper bag.
Before my dad could make it to the kitchen My sisters and I hot-footed it downstairs.
In the bag would be two large malts.
We would get our glasses and line up to get our share of the malt. We’d drink it and tilt that tumbler and our heads as far back as we could to get each plunk of a last drop.
We’d wait and see if there was any left that we would get.
When it was all gone, we’d bop back up the stairs and go back to bed.
Frisch’s Big Boys
My parents bough a very icky house on Duck Creek Road in Norwood. It was a two-family.
The former owners had lots of cats that used the whole house as a litter box. The woodwork was painted black. It stank, stunk and stinked. (I am sure “stinker” is what I said back then)
My sisters and I were relegated to go help. We swept floors, stripped thick globs of black paint. I can still smell the fumes of the paint remover mixed is must and cat pee.
On the way home we would stop at the Duck Creek Frisch’s where I ordered a Big Boy platter.
The Big Boys seemed big and were very tasty. I was also a cole slaw freak so I begged people’s cole slaw if I could.
Another Big Boy memory is when my dad and I would go to a Red’s game at Crosley Field and we’d go early and stop at the Frisch’s on Reading Road.
I’d get a Big Boy platter and strawberry pie. It tasted better than anything in the world because I was with my dad.
As soon as we got to our seats at the Red’s game, dad would put his transistor radio on, stick the earplugs in his ears and listen to Wait Hoyt do the play-by-play, while I walked up and down the aisles, from one end of the park to the other, watching people. I’d heard people cheer and I’d poke my head into one of the gates, to see what had happened.
By the second inning, I was asking my dad for hot dog and lemonade money.
The Red’s players went to their clubhouse via an area that was visible to fans.
One time, I saw Pete Rose, and I yelled, “Hey Pete, I’m your cousin.”
He came over and I sheepishly said, “Well, I’m not really your cousin, but can I have your autograph?”
I was cute then, so he laughs and signed my scorecard.
That autograph went the way of Oscar Robertson’s autograph that I got on cash register take while working at UDF.
Go ahead and gag. I like White Castles. I love the maggot-like onions and extra dill pickle slices when they are coated in the oil and shmeer, from when the little square, hole-filled, possibly meat patties, are grilled with the buns on top.
We would go ape when the 5 for 25 cents coupons came out in the Norwood Enterprise newspaper. We’d try to get extra newspaper to get the coupons. Talk about hog heaven!
Sometimes we’d stop at White Castles after church at the NPC (Norwood Presbyterian Church). And about once a year, my mom would pick me up from school at lunchtime and take me to White Castles. I’d feel like such a big shot trotting back to the playground with my Coke.
The only time when I didn’t want to go to White Castles was when as a freshman, my sorority had a formal dance. The only boy I was allowed to ask was my buddy Greg, who I grew up with and lived a couple of houses away.
My parents took us and picked us up from the dance. I had on a formal that my mom had made. Greg looked nice, but he was just, “Greg,” the boy I played Army with.
Wouldn’t you know it, my dad thought it would be a great treat if he took just to White Castles.
White Castles after a formal!
Greg thought it was great, but I went down in that seat like I was digging my way to Antarctica.
But when I smelled those little maggot covered burgers, I slithered back to my seat and downed my fair share.
Greg went on to be a high ranking military man. I went on with my life.
I could write about the cole slaw at the Colony restaurant at Swifton and how a waitress name, “V” gave me double servings, or the time I sat on a beautiful chocolate cream pie on the vacation when my mom had to go to the bathroom, NOW but dad couldn’t find an exit off the highway.
There are times when I think of the spaghetti and meatballs my mom made for my birthday parties. Ot my dad grilling Porterhouse steaks on his doozy of a homemade smoker contraption, before there were smokers. But I’d be here all day.
And I have spaghetti bolognese to make for my son’s family and a neighbor, so I will let you go.
Oh no … I think I am smelling White Castles.
These are boxes I made yesterday. I used the wallpaper I had made out of one of my prints. Thought you might like to see them.