The McNugget Dilemma

I have to admit it… I’m a fan of McDonalds.  I know the food is bad for me and I assume that each and every meal I choose to eat at McDonalds probably shortens my life by a measurable amount, and I understand that it is far from fine dining.  I understand the average McDonalds menu item has more sodium and calories in it than many children from Haiti eat in a month, and I wholeheartedly admit that even though they are offered I never order a salad or anything which could in any way be misconstrued for being remotely healthy.

Although I will never even attempt to compare the taste or quality of McDonalds with more expensive eateries, when it comes to fast food McDonalds does it about as good as anyone, and thus when it comes time to decide which drive thru is going to get my business on a particular day, McDonalds probably earns that dubious distinction more than any other.  Maybe it is the fries that are quite simply the best french fry of any fast food chain.  Maybe it is the “limited time only” offerings of the McRib or Monopoly game pieces.  Or maybe it is due to childhood nostalgia that surrounds the idea of a Happy Meal.

One thing I can promise is that my appreciation for McDonalds has nothing to do with Ronald McDonald himself.  It might be due to the fact that he is nothing more than a talking clown (and everyone knows clowns are just scary), or it might have something to do with the overall creepy “pedophile-like” demeanor, but I can honestly say I have never been a fan of Ronald McDonald.

That said, ever since I was a kid I’ve always liked the McNuggets.  I’ve bounced back and forth from sweet & sour sauce to barbeque sauce, and I’ve lived long enough to remember when they sold the nuggets in six piece, nine piece, or 20 piece boxes before they moved to the ten piece standard that is common today.  For a while I thought the chicken selects would soon replace nuggets as my preferred choice for tiny bits of chicken deliciousness, but eventually I migrated back to the nuggets and find myself ordering them more than anything else on the menu.

So of course ordering nuggets as often as I do has led me to a conundrum which I have affectionately labeled “the McNugget dilemma”.  The basic premise is, from time to time I have discovered an order of ten nuggets doesn’t always contain 10 nuggets.  On rare occasion I have been shorted a nugget, but it seems most of the time if there is a counting error it is in my favor, which translates to 11 nuggets (or one time it was 12 nuggets).

Now I fully realize in some cases the McDonalds employee who is putting the nuggets into the little box might have one or two extra nuggets in a batch so they just toss them in my box as a free bonus, but I have to wonder how often this odd number of nuggets is actually due to human error.

Thus, when receiving 11 nuggets should I be happy I have received a free (and tasty) bonus McNugget, or should I be sad that the McDonalds worker who prepared my meal lacks the ability to accurately count to 10?  These are the types of questions I struggle with, and I dare say I’m not the only one.

Question of the Day

Have you ever noticed that the vast majority of pizza we consume is round, yet when you order a pizza it most often is delivered in a square box?  Seems like a lot of wasted space if you ask me.

Yes I know Domino's has clipped corners on their box, but it isn't exactly round by any means.  Papa Johns attempts to make use of this extra space by tossing in some dipping sauces and a pepper or two (which almost always end up in the trash), and occasionally you will find a pizza place that actually makes square or rectangular shaped pizza, but it is pretty rare.

I wonder how much extra space is delivered to American households in the average day.  I'd say the guy who can invent a round pizza box that can be produced economically (at least as cheap as the more common square boxes) is going to be one very rich man.

Maybe they should get one of the Ikea designers to work on this... those guys are experts at efficient design and know how to pack the absolute most amount of product into the smallest possible container.

Baby Names and Professions

What is it with people wanting to name their kids after professions or activities?  Oh sure it all started innocent enough when someone decided to name their kid “Taylor” but spell it T-A-I-L-O-R, but next thing you know you have kids named Hunter, Priest, Lawyer, Carpenter, or Judge. 

Do parents actually think naming a kid something will lead them to follow that career or be interested in that activity?  If so I imagine those people who have named their daughter Candy probably wanted her to be a confectioner... or perhaps they just gave up all hope even before she was born and assumed she would be a stripper.

Parents who have named their son Hunter probably wanted to ensure he liked the outdoors, and parents who named their kid Dusty are probably just assuming he will be dirty his entire life.  However, if parents really do put emphasis on names as professions, DeForest Kelley’s mother most likely really wanted him to be a logger... specifically a logger in Ireland.  

Of course above all else is the former NASCAR driver with the name Dick Trickle… he must have been a huge disappointment to his parents as it seems they had their sights set on him becoming either a porn star or a spokesperson for Flomax.

That said, there is actually some science behind names.  I recently was listening to a radio program where New York Times columnist David Brooks spoke about “brain sculpture”.  He spoke of studies that have shown people named Dennis are disproportionately destined to become dentists and that people named Laurence are disproportionately likely to become lawyers.

According to Brooks in some sense people have a vague sense that they like the familiar – so they gravitate to words (and concepts) that are familiar to them.  The mind seeks out familiarity, and this is just one way it presents itself.  I suppose some might call it fate, others coincidence, but if you are taking the chance on naming your child after something you hope they can strive to become, might I suggest you name your child "Doctor", "Actor" or "President"?

Fun Size!

With Halloween upon us, it got me thinking about the candy that is given out and how blatantly misleading candy companies are.

I think there should be a law against "bite size" or "snack size" candy bars.  I mean...what’s the point?  Instead of eating one regular size candy bar, you just end up eating 23 of the smaller ones... but I guess you can justify that by using all that energy to open those little bitty packages right?

However I draw the line on the slightly larger size which is called “fun size”.  What the heck is actually fun about having to open up little candy bars when your brain is telling you that you really want the full size (real) version?  That isn’t fun.  That isn’t even remotely fun, and I challenge anyone to find someone out there who thinks getting only a portion of a candy bar is “fun”.

I suppose next time I fill up with gas I’ll just fill up to the ¼ tank line.  That way I can claim it is “fun” gas.  No need for a full tank here… I’m driving with a tank load of fun!  And the next time I decide to buy shampoo I’m going to skip the big bottle and just buy about 25 of those little travel sizes.  Obviously they are more fun, so that’s something to look forward to each day.  Finally, the next time I fly coach I’ll ask the flight attendant if they could wedge me between two morbidly obese people just so I get the experience of having a seat which is about 60% smaller than normal... because that would make the flight between Denver and New York a whole lot more fun right?

I guess in some cases this might actually be useful to certain men who were born with less than average sized "equipment".  If their girlfriends / wives / random one night stands ever complain... all they have to do is say that if fun size is good enough for The Hershey Company and Mars Inc, then it is good enough for them!

Life, after all, is all about the fun.

Wind: my original (and extremely short) story

There are days when you can feel the wind even when you are indoors…days where a glance out of the window sends chills throughout your body.  Looking at the green meadow outside of the kitchen window, you can see the grass moving in waves as the wind releases itself onto the cool earth.

The windowpanes rattle in their frames, reminding you that winter is coming….soon you will feel the cold air rushing in through the cracks of the 100 year old home…and the only thing you can counter it with is another log on the fire and another blanket on your lap as you pet your Labrador and listen to the static impregnated music from the radio sitting on the counter.

It is overcast outside, with small hints of sunlight dancing off of that meadow from time to time, but not nearly enough to warm your skin as you stand in the window.  For some reason you feel it is enough to ensure you don’t turn on a light, and it makes the room feel cool – even if the temperature hasn’t changed in days.  You slide into an old cotton sweater your mother used to wear, not so much for the extra layer of clothing, but for the memory of her standing in that very same window, with that very same sweater.

You can see bits of plastic that have become caught on the rusty barbed wire fence across the driveway – the wind whipping at them almost as if it shows signs of fury, but powerless to tear the plastic away.  Years ago that fence was meant to keep cattle away from the house, yet decades later it is still keeping control of what crosses its path.  Parts of that fence are falling down, but you can’t bring yourself to remove the remaining wire.  It has become part of the atmosphere of this old house, and every time you look at it you are reminded of your late father.

He put that fence up in a hotter than normal July so many years ago.  You remember being a small girl watching him work under the oppressive sun as the sweat poured down his brow and he wiped it with his forearm – leaving a streak of moisture on his arm to collect more dirt before he smeared it onto his forehead again.  You can remember the day so vividly, almost as if it was just last week.  You can recall how he would lift his hat to tousle his hair – somehow thinking if he let his damp hair breathe it would cool him down.

Memories surround this old house, which is why even after the prodding of family and friends, you have never been able to sell it.  Sure you had a home in town that you could live more comfortably in, but new homes never have the emotion built into the old ones – and as the weeks since your mother’s death turned into months, you find yourself spending more and more time out here.  Other than the food in the cupboards, nothing inside of the home looks to be newer than the 70s, and you now realized how possessions never meant anything to your parents.  They never had much money, but it didn’t bother them since what little they did have was never of concern.  They bought what they needed – perhaps that was a trait developed by living through the depression and the World Wars….however for some reason you feel that it wouldn’t have mattered.

As you walk back towards the fire, the floorboards squeak with each step, almost as if they are crying for the loss of the people who lived there for almost 60 years.  The only surviving member is Mitch – the old faithful companion who only barks when he is hungry, but never when someone comes to the door. Mitch is old enough that the journey from the couch to the hearth of the fireplace is about all he can manage in an hour, but he seems so very content…the same feeling you get by being here.

You realize it will never be your house – surely the deed to the house and surrounding land is in your name, but this will forever remain your parent’s home.  The thought of someone buying it has never appealed to you – however you doubt anyone would want a 100 year old house almost 20 miles from the nearest town, and 4 from the nearest neighbor.  Since the rent from the land is more than enough to pay for the taxes and upkeep, you figure you will just let the house age with you. 

As you sit there thinking of all of the years spent with this house, you are startled by the phone ringing from the kitchen.  Even the phone is the old rotary dial with the real bell inside – enough to alert you to the call even while standing outside on the porch.  Reaching for the receiver you softly answer, listening as the caller asks for your mother.  It has happened a few times in the last few months, but it doesn’t get any easier to tell people she has passed on….especially considering you don’t know if they are a salesperson or a longtime friend from years gone.  As you accept their condolences and hang up, you recognize that 12 seconds of conversation is the only human contact you have had in over a week – however this suddenly doesn’t seem all that disappointing.

As you pull the sweater up around your neck a little tighter, you glance once again at the grass in the meadow dancing up the hill, and you realize the wind carries more than just dust and cool air…it interacts with you and the surroundings…and it presents the memories of a family that once was.