I have a confession to make, a dirty little secret of sorts.
I know it isn’t trendy, it isn’t cool, and is probably bad for me in more ways than I can count, but I love McDonald’s.
Oh, sure, I go to those fancy, shmancy places where you get ‘clean’ food that would starve a rabbit. We often, while in the City, frequent the pasta place or a new eatery that showed up on our radar somehow. We have even gone to the famed steakhouse in Stockyard City.
But if I am alone, or on a fast trip somewhere, it is the Golden Arches for me.
When I was growing up there wasn’t a choice. It was Henry’s Hamburgers in what used to be the Chuckwagon Drive-In. The building, of course, was shaped like a gigantic prairie schooner. The last time I remember going there the average price for a burger, fries and a soft drink was about 75 cents. If you wanted a milkshake instead, the cost skyrocketed to $1.15.
By that time, I was a teenager with babysitting money to spend and friends with driver’s licenses. Living large.
But before that, way down in town near the big Kmart was the land of dreams: McDonald’s. It was so long ago the straws were red and yellow striped and had no paper wrappers.
This was about the time my father had died, leaving a half dozen kids. Mom went back to work, but there was never anything left over for things like eating away from home.
It became the thing wished for that we never spoke of, never asked for, because we knew better. We might have to go to the Kmart for back to school goods, or at Christmastime, but it was like our old sedan didn’t know how to make that right turn into the fast food joint.
Don’t get me wrong, we never went hungry. There were freezers full of beef in the shed at home. That didn’t change the longing for a greasy brown paper bag full of hot, salty fries.
Every great once in a while, usually after a visit to the doctor or dentist, we might go to McDonald’s, just Mom and the patient, while the others were in school.
It would be hard to determine whether it was the alone time with her or the perfect mix of mustard, ketchup and pickles that made eating there perfect.
There are other memories, too. I took a McDonald’s bag with me into the clinic while I waited for the positive pregnancy test on our first born, Katie. And a lot of times coming back from gathering cattle on mountains and meadows, we’d pull into the parking lot, too dirty, sweaty and tired to do anything else to ease our hunger pangs.
Traveling across country plenty of times with a vehicle full of kids, the golden glow was a beacon of hope and safety. Hope that we were getting somewhere and that the kids would be safe from the wrath of their mom for a short respite before we climbed back in and pointed the truck toward morning.
So yes, I love McDonald’s. It is baked into the history of my family, just like it is for so many of my generation. It isn’t trendy, and it isn’t cool, but it is part of our collective memories and part of the fabric of our lives.
Long live the Golden Arches.