Etched Memories
As the Mike Curb Congregation used to sing, "all my life’s a circle." Google, which took me to all the info above in two minutes, recently announced that it will be building its new home in Ann Arbor, Michigan. It just so happens that Ann Arbor is the place I first heard the term French vanilla. It was the summer of 1970.
I know what you’re thinking: “How could you possibly know the time and place you first heard such a common term? Aren’t you supposed to reserve that ‘I’ll never forget where I was’ stuff for life-changing, historical events?”
I do see your point: On November 22, 1963 my 2nd grade classmates and I came in from afternoon recess to Mrs. Schoen’s room. We were told to put our heads on the desk and listen to the Radio over the PA. President Kennedy’s had just been shot and killed. I was in grad school on March 30, 1981, standing in the Fine Arts blue-diamond marquis foyer when I heard that President Reagan had been shot. On January 26, 1986, I was collecting journals from my senior English class when we were told that the Space Shuttle Challenger had blown up during take off. And I was visiting with a missionary in my office about an exchange student’s visa when we were told a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. (We went right on talking, thinking it was a small, private craft. A few moments later the second plane hit and the world changed.)
Compared to those events, the following day of my life should have passed forgotten, but I tend to remember "firsts."
As I said, it was in the summer of 1970. My friend Dave Sanborn invited me to spend the night at his house. We listened to music on the radio until who knows when. I remember discussing whether the female vocalist was pronouncing “Indianapolis” correctly in her version of “Little Green Apples.” (Instead of saying “Indian-apolis,” she was saying “Indiana-polis” and it sounded odd to us.) The next morning we had french toast for breakfast and then went with his father to the University of Michigan two hours away. This was my first time ever on the U of M campus. (His father was a band teacher and was taking a summer class there.)
We passed time at the Museum of Natural History. At noon, we met his father for lunch at a campus cafeteria. (I had never tried chicken-a-la-king before. It sounded French—not bad once you pick out the little red things.) On the way home, Mr. Sanborn treated us to some ice cream at Baskin-Robin’s 31 Flavors. (Mom often served ice cream as dessert at home, but I had never been to such a place.) I was overwhelmed with the choices—one for every day of the month. Strange flavors like pink bubble gum and “Lunar Cheese Cake” (commemorating man’s first steps on the moon from the previous year).
Dave got a double scoop combo. His father did the same. They stood their licking away at their cones, offering me suggestions as I tried to make up my mind. I smiled nervously as I paced in front of the glass counter staring at all the colors and reading the unfamiliar names.
It was on that day, at the age of fourteen, that I first learned of my aversion to the unknown (picking out the red things in chicken-a-la-king should have been a hint). I'm just not much of a risk taker. With the ice cream world staring me in the face, one word jumped out of my mouth to quell my indecision: “Vanilla.”
The young lady reached her scoop into the freezer and said,
“French Vanilla or New York Vanilla?”
“Are you kidding?" I gasped, “Don’t you have just plain ol’ vanilla?”
I looked at my friend and his father who were still shocked that I had spurned twenty-nine other flavors. Their smiles did not hide that they were eager to head home.
Random and irrelevant criteria flooded my mind: French Vanilla was yellow; New York was white. Miss White taught us French in 3rd Grade. France had the Eiffel Tower; New York had the Empire State building; it also had the Yankees. I didn't like the Yankees, but I did like Niagara Falls. I'd already had two French meals that day. Maybe I should I go for the trifecta. A line was forming behind me. The server looked at her watch.
I shouted to myself, Which one? Think, Man! I looked up at the girl, and with all the bravado of a high stakes roller betting the farm on seven, I said. . .“I'll have a scoop of each.”
My friends nodded their approval with sympathetic smiles, but the sighs from hungry patrons behind me made the moment feel a little bit like a pat on the back for fourth place.
My family laughed when they heard it took me five minutes to decide on vanilla—and even then it was a split decision! For over 35 years, they have not let me live it down.
I must admit... I still tend to play it safe with my taste buds, but I no longer pick at my food. And when it comes to making decisions, I pause to consider the pros and cons without being double-minded. Before taking action, I tend to "measure twice and cut once" as the ol' time carpenters used to say. And I take solace in the song from the old VanCamp's commercial ..."Simple pleasures are the best—all the little things that make you smile and grow...all the things you know..."
I thoroughly enjoyed both scoops that afternoon, and after all these years, I'm still pretty much a vanilla kind of guy.
I know what you’re thinking: “How could you possibly know the time and place you first heard such a common term? Aren’t you supposed to reserve that ‘I’ll never forget where I was’ stuff for life-changing, historical events?”
I do see your point: On November 22, 1963 my 2nd grade classmates and I came in from afternoon recess to Mrs. Schoen’s room. We were told to put our heads on the desk and listen to the Radio over the PA. President Kennedy’s had just been shot and killed. I was in grad school on March 30, 1981, standing in the Fine Arts blue-diamond marquis foyer when I heard that President Reagan had been shot. On January 26, 1986, I was collecting journals from my senior English class when we were told that the Space Shuttle Challenger had blown up during take off. And I was visiting with a missionary in my office about an exchange student’s visa when we were told a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. (We went right on talking, thinking it was a small, private craft. A few moments later the second plane hit and the world changed.)
Compared to those events, the following day of my life should have passed forgotten, but I tend to remember "firsts."
As I said, it was in the summer of 1970. My friend Dave Sanborn invited me to spend the night at his house. We listened to music on the radio until who knows when. I remember discussing whether the female vocalist was pronouncing “Indianapolis” correctly in her version of “Little Green Apples.” (Instead of saying “Indian-apolis,” she was saying “Indiana-polis” and it sounded odd to us.) The next morning we had french toast for breakfast and then went with his father to the University of Michigan two hours away. This was my first time ever on the U of M campus. (His father was a band teacher and was taking a summer class there.)
We passed time at the Museum of Natural History. At noon, we met his father for lunch at a campus cafeteria. (I had never tried chicken-a-la-king before. It sounded French—not bad once you pick out the little red things.) On the way home, Mr. Sanborn treated us to some ice cream at Baskin-Robin’s 31 Flavors. (Mom often served ice cream as dessert at home, but I had never been to such a place.) I was overwhelmed with the choices—one for every day of the month. Strange flavors like pink bubble gum and “Lunar Cheese Cake” (commemorating man’s first steps on the moon from the previous year).
Dave got a double scoop combo. His father did the same. They stood their licking away at their cones, offering me suggestions as I tried to make up my mind. I smiled nervously as I paced in front of the glass counter staring at all the colors and reading the unfamiliar names.
It was on that day, at the age of fourteen, that I first learned of my aversion to the unknown (picking out the red things in chicken-a-la-king should have been a hint). I'm just not much of a risk taker. With the ice cream world staring me in the face, one word jumped out of my mouth to quell my indecision: “Vanilla.”
The young lady reached her scoop into the freezer and said,
“French Vanilla or New York Vanilla?”
“Are you kidding?" I gasped, “Don’t you have just plain ol’ vanilla?”
I looked at my friend and his father who were still shocked that I had spurned twenty-nine other flavors. Their smiles did not hide that they were eager to head home.
Random and irrelevant criteria flooded my mind: French Vanilla was yellow; New York was white. Miss White taught us French in 3rd Grade. France had the Eiffel Tower; New York had the Empire State building; it also had the Yankees. I didn't like the Yankees, but I did like Niagara Falls. I'd already had two French meals that day. Maybe I should I go for the trifecta. A line was forming behind me. The server looked at her watch.
I shouted to myself, Which one? Think, Man! I looked up at the girl, and with all the bravado of a high stakes roller betting the farm on seven, I said. . .“I'll have a scoop of each.”
My friends nodded their approval with sympathetic smiles, but the sighs from hungry patrons behind me made the moment feel a little bit like a pat on the back for fourth place.
My family laughed when they heard it took me five minutes to decide on vanilla—and even then it was a split decision! For over 35 years, they have not let me live it down.
I must admit... I still tend to play it safe with my taste buds, but I no longer pick at my food. And when it comes to making decisions, I pause to consider the pros and cons without being double-minded. Before taking action, I tend to "measure twice and cut once" as the ol' time carpenters used to say. And I take solace in the song from the old VanCamp's commercial ..."Simple pleasures are the best—all the little things that make you smile and grow...all the things you know..."
I thoroughly enjoyed both scoops that afternoon, and after all these years, I'm still pretty much a vanilla kind of guy.
posted by .Tom Kapanka | 6:15 AM
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