About three weeks ago, I was horrified to discover that several of the newspapers I write for, out in the northwest suburbs of Chicago, had published a letter to the editor from a deluded reader. The letter they published was written by a bitter woman who didn't like one of my food columns and responded by writing a two-page piece of junk that was full of vicious personal attacks accusing me of being, among other things, "yuppie," "pretentious," and "spoiled brat," and also (to paraphrase several paragraphs of rambling) a pagan hippie with bad taste in food, no connection to reality, and no morals. She actually insinuated that on the Christmas Eve I wrote about (when I couldn't go home and I found new community with several single friends whom I cooked turkey dinner with and went to church with), we were actually having a pot-smoking, alcohol-laden orgy. I kid you not. The letter was crazy and the woman was crazy. I was so upset that I sat down and wrote a food column about growing up at McDonalds. I couldn't respond to her unwarranted personal attacks, but I could at least tell the truth about my upbringing and my family.
My colleagues, all equally horrified that something as libelous and mean-spirited as that letter had actually been printed in several papers, loved my new column and we squeezed into the very next week's paper.
Guess what happened? McDonalds Corporation (headquartered in Chicago) saw the article and immediately contacted me. They wanted to know who my dad is, and who he works for. After getting permission from my father, I wrote back with the pertinent info and also included a second column that mentions Dad at work. I also bragged about Dad a bunch in the email. Imagine my surprise when the CEO of McDonalds Corporation, Jim Skinner himself, got ahold of the articles and loved them. In fact, he emailed them out to McDonalds employees across the world. The email must have gone out yesterday, because since them I've been inundated with emails from grateful employees happy that someone talked about fast food in a positive light. I even heard from a man in New Zealand and just had the pleasant surprise of hearing from old family Mcfriends who live in Germany! The best part is that Dad's name is on the email, too, so everyone gets to hear about how wonderful he is.
When I told my brother Peter about this, he said, "Wait a minute ... didn't you write that column because you were so mad at the crazy lady?"
"Yup," I said.
"Wow, look what happened," he replied. He was right. God definitely brought good out of evil.
The two columns that have been sent out are below. They appeared on January 25, 2007 and November 23, 2006.
Food background? yes and no
(http://www.pioneerlocal.com/evanston/lifestyles/food/229382,pp-tibdits-012507-s1.article)
January 25, 2007
BY STEPHANIE FOSNIGHT Staff Writer
I'm out on a food assignment, notebook in hand, jotting down recipe tips and asking questions about timing and technique, and I see it coming. The chef/home cook/restauranteur I'm interviewing turns to me amiably and asks, "So, do you have a background in food?"
It's a fair question. So I give them the standard answer: No, I'm a journalist who got a job in features. As I wrote food stories, I began to learn about the subject and before long found myself a bona fide home cook with an avid interest in flavors and cooking, as well as the bigger questions of food supply and sustainability.
But now I'll come clean, because I do have a background in food. But it's fast food.
I grew up, more or less, at McDonalds.
Yes, that McDonalds. My parents met there. He was her manager, she was a college student. They quickly married and had my brother and me. Mom spent years working both full- and part-time shifts at McDonalds as she raised her family and completed her education. She's now a teacher. But Dad still works at McDonalds, helping to run individual stores for a private owner.
I spent formative years among the beeps and the sizzle of a fast-food kitchen. When child care was tough, my brother and I sat for seemingly interminable hours in the crew room, folding Happy Meal boxes and cleaning trays while we licked clandestine ice cream cones the teenaged employees would sneak to us.
As soon as we were 14, we donned uniforms and started picking up weekend hours for a little extra cash. At age 16, I waited on a very rude man who ordered a custom sandwich (which, I hasten to add, I made correctly) and brought it back twice to get the ingredients changed while he scowled at me. When the shift manager whispered, "Stephanie, that's Barry Bonds," I said, "Who?" My envious brother never quite forgave me.
I continued to work at McDonalds during summers while home on college vacation. My job there funded my European backpacking adventures. In fact, whenever I got homesick while studying in Alicante, Spain for a semester, I headed to the McDonalds on the shores of the Mediterranean and ordered, "Una hamburguesa, por favor."
Finally, when I started my last year of college, I gave my uniform back to my dad. That was the end of an eight-year fast food career but, to be honest, I actually miss it once in awhile. I learned a lot about food at McDonalds.
I learned that everyone has different tastes.
Until I reached adulthood, for example, I abhorred fish. Yet I remember one charming older woman who came in every day and order a Filet O' Fish with tartar sauce, along with a senior citizen coffee. She would then sit and eat her fish sandwich with obvious relish as she sipped her coffee and chatted with those around her.
I learned that, when you give someone exactly what they are craving, they can be very grateful.
An inveterate special-order gal myself (my favorite McDonalds sandwich is still a hamburger with only ketchup and extra pickles), I delighted in working with a customer to create exactly what he or she wanted. A Big Mac with ketchup instead of special sauce, no cheese, hold the pickles and put on extra onions instead? No problem. The payoff was the customer's gratitude that someone understood and took the time to get it right.
I learned that food is best enjoyed with those you love.
One man named John came in around 6 a.m. every morning with one or two buddies. They'd order their senior coffees and their Egg McMuffins and sit in the corner discussing politics, dogs and wives. They'd chat with me, too. They became friends and, if I wasn't busy running the early morning drive-thru and front corner, I'd sit down with them.
Of course not all of my growing up was spent at McDonalds. I am blessed with a family that loves to cook and who always celebrates meals together. My dad is a master at the Weber grill (as you might imagine) and I can't think of a single dish that my mom ever ruined. Both sets of grandparents still cook and the extended family loves to gather around the table.
My parents were very careful to teach us about nutrition and balance and choosing fresh food over processed. We stayed active with sports and hikes and eight hour blocks rushing around a fast food restaurant.
I keep a Teenie Beanie Baby on my desk, a little bear who's wearing a black- and white- striped "jailbird" outfit with a mask over his eyes and a hamburger-dotted tie. He's the Hamburglar Beanie Baby I keep to remind me of the years that came before my career in journalism.
One of my favorite jobs at McDonalds was participating in the Ronald McDonald shows. I'd dress up as Hamburglar, complete with giant foam head, and pass out cookies to the little kids in the audience as Ronald did his thing.
So, no, I don't have a background in gourmet food or culinary arts. But I know an awful lot about the people across America who hop into the car and, for whatever reason, pick up a burger and fries. As any cultural historian will tell you, that's an integral chapter in the modern story of how and what we eat.
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Family's tragedy hits home at Thanksgiving
(http://www.pioneerlocal.com/jeffersonpark/lifestyles/food/151058,pp-tidbits-112306-s1.article)
November 23, 2006
One chilly November day in 2003, I lugged a frozen turkey along a Rogers Park street, 20 pounds of poultry goodness bumping against my leg as the woefully inadequate plastic bag handles cut into my reddening hands. My pal Pete carried several other bags with sweet potatoes, corn, stuffing, cherry pie filling and other Thanksgiving trimmings.
We turned into the courtyard of a massive apartment complex, the security gate swinging open noisily when we leaned on it. Then we trooped up the wooden back stairs to a third-floor apartment and knocked on the door. Pete and I glanced at each other, a little uncertain, before a middle school girl slowly opened the kitchen door.
"Hola," I said, mustering a confident smile and rusty Spanish skills. "Tenemos la comida del dia para dar gracias." We were there with the Thanksgiving food.
The girl gave us embarrassed thanks in English and invited us into the steaming kitchen. There we deposited the bags of food as her mother stood by smiling shyly and gratefully. Pete and I did our best to make small talk in Spanish as more children slipped into the kitchen.
We'd come from the church, we explained, since the family had requested a Thanksgiving basket through our food pantry and benevolence programs. I asked about the children's names and ages. There were at least five older ones and a baby girl whom I cuddled for awhile.
Our unease melted away and, when Pete asked the mother if she wanted us to pray with her, she nodded emphatically and instructed her children to form a circle. We all held hands for a brief but powerful prayer. After exchanging warm hugs, Pete and I were on our way to take food to the next family on our list.
These Thanksgiving visits, made over the last several years, took on new significance when I received a sobering e-mail this fall.
It turned out my church was connected with the Ramirez family of Rogers Park, who lost six children in an apartment fire on Sept. 1. The tragic death of six children, ages 3 to 14, made national headlines and briefly turned the country's attention toward the plight of Latino families living in tight spaces as they seek better lives.
The Ramirez family, the e-mail went on to say, had taken part in my church's various urban ministry programs. In fact, they'd received our yearly Thanksgiving baskets. There was a good chance, I realized with sudden horror, that I'd actually met this family and been in their home.
"Was it the family with the baby?" I wondered. Then I remembered the child's unusual name. She hadn't been among the victims. But there were other visits to other crowded apartments, places where polite children whose names I've long since forgotten spilled out of every corner and respectfully translated for their parents.
These apartments didn't seem dangerous or unkempt. They were crowded, yes, but they were filled with life and love and sometimes even pets. One little boy proudly showed off his pet fish while his sister fished out a kitten from under the sofa.
Many of the same children come to the church every fall to pick up backpacks filled with school supplies, the girls wearing braids and pigtails and pink shoes, the boys with sweaters or polo shirts.
The kids translate for their parents, who smile at us and say, "Gracias" over and over again as their children steer them toward the multi-colored stuffed backpacks. The pink backpacks are always the first to go.
I grew up in a spacious suburban house on the edge of Arizona's Sonoran desert. We had a swimming pool, citrus trees and hibiscus set against the backdrop of towering mountains and saguaro cacti. Yet my parents made sure we didn't forget about the other world.
They took us every year on house-building trips to slums, and we spent several Thanksgiving mornings peeling potatoes for giant meals. Friends would transport the food down to the Salt River and other places where Phoenix's homeless population congregated.
I remember one November day when I was 14. I'd just finished my shift at the McDonalds restaurant where my father was general manager and was waiting, as usual, for Dad to finish his interminable tasks so we could go home.
Dad sat at his little desk in the midst of the beeping and shouting of a fast food kitchen, carefully counting drawers and balancing the books. Then a Mexican employee came up and they began a long conversation. I lost interest and twiddled my fingers, heaving huge occasional sighs, but then noticed my father slipping money out of his wallet and into the woman's hands.
"Have a good Thanksgiving," he told her, as we finally left the McDonalds.
This year I'll drive over the river, through the woods and across the rolling hills to spend Thanksgiving in Lexington, Kentucky with my grandmother and other assorted relatives. But as I tuck into a feast of fat things, I hope I will remember the Ramirez family, and all of the other families who make so very much out of so little.
© Copyright 2007 Sun-Times News Group | User Agreement and Privacy Policy
