Here's how The Pony survived a week at Boys State with his limited food preferences.
"I ate whatever they gave us. For breakfast they had pancakes. Or waffles. Sausage patties and sometimes sticks. They had scrambled eggs quite often. I don't remember anything else."
"Lunch was a hamburger one day. Chicken patty the next. I can't remember the lunches. They just weren't memorable."
"For dinner? One night I could tell it was some kind of chicken. But it didn't have any taste. Everyone agreed it was tasteless chicken. Then I we had turkey, I think. Ham. Most often they had some kind of meat. One night they had...I don't know WHAT it was. Meat, maybe."
"Was it in gravy or something."
"Almost all the meat was in gravy."
"What did you have to drink."
"I didn't know we could get water until Wednesday! It was way off to the side of everything. We always had pitchers of DRINK on our table. That's what it was labeled. It was different every night. Strawberry drink. Grape drink. Orange drink. Fruit punch drink! The grape drink was the best. I got to the table first, and when I saw we were having grape drink, I poured myself a full glass and drank it. Then I poured another full glass and drank it. Then I poured my glass and sat down. They never knew I was drinking it all. We only got two pitchers a night for the whole table."
"So I guess somebody went without drink."
"No, not without. But not everybody got more than one."
Always the problem-solver. My little Pony.
Boys State: Building Men Out of Boys! Or maybe future financiers!
ReplyDeleteBuilding cut-throat drink-thieves out of dehydrated young 'uns. The Pony loved working on the newspaper, except he didn't want to interview people for stories. Go figure.
DeleteSome kind of meat in gravy or something...Mmmm, I bet that goes good with grape drink.
ReplyDeleteHe said there was so much gravy on everything that he didn't know what kind of meat it was. I can't imagine what they served. Salisbury steak? Chicken fried steak? All kinds of meat that aren't really steak? Turkey medallions? We have those at school covered with gravy, but only for Thanksgiving and Christmas.
DeleteHe was beside himself that a pitcher was labeled "Fruit Punch Drink."
The hoarder of the grape drink, The Pony is.
ReplyDeleteYou should be so proud. When it comes to grape drink, he's not afraid to claw his way to the front of the line... and then slurp away unfettered.
Sausage STICKS?
Yes, that was uncharacteristically aggressive for The Pony. He would normally wait until his bucket was filled. It must have been like Lord of the Flies there.
DeleteThe Pony is not aware of link sausages. Thus, they were stick sausages to him.
My son attended Boys State, too. I figured it was good practice for college. Especially the food.
ReplyDeleteThe Pony had better college practice last summer at Missouri Scholars Academy for three weeks. He had to do his own LAUNDRY! And pick out which clothes matched afterward!
DeleteHe got his time capsule letter this summer. Where it asked the hardest part of the three weeks, he said, "Picking different meat for sandwiches at lunch every day."
He was part of the journalism school, reporting on his city, Lewis, every day. On Wednesday of that week, he even had his own article on the front page (ABOVE THE FOLD!) with his own byline. He's all about the facts. For fun, he writes science fiction and fantasy. He has a story coming out in the Red Mars anthology to be released this fall.
That boy knows a thing or two about drinking his fill. Sticks? What kind of sticks?
ReplyDeleteLet's hope he keeps it non-alcoholic! To The Pony, sausage links are sausage sticks. He can't be bothered with societal norms or nomenclature. Like he doesn't really care about helping people, he doesn't really care what you call his sausage.
DeleteWhat ARE we supposed to call The Pony's sausage?
Delete(I'm sorry. I couldn't resist.)
Doesn't really matter, as long as you don't stand in the middle of Little Caesar's and announce how hard it is to hold his balls.
Deletehttp://unbaggingthecatsone.blogspot.com/2011/09/i-can-fit-my-whole-foot-in-my-mouth.html