Random Cinnamon Raisin Bread Memories
Sep. 24th, 2006 02:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
loracsEvery Saturday morning, my mother and I would take the bus downtown for my dance lessons. I was about 6 or 7 years old. After class, we'd go to the "Five & Dime" store's diner. Mom would have coffee and I'd have hot coco with a side of cinnamon raisin toast. I felt very grown up, talking and dunking my toast in the coco as mom dunked hers in coffee. The warm chocolate/cinnamon smell, sweet bread, smooth butter floating on top and chewy raisins was just the best. I learned the etiquette of restaurant eating on those Saturdays.
First, always make sure you had enough money to pay for the food and a 3 - 5% tip - this was 40 plus years ago, when gas was .20 a gallon, okay?
Second, keep your elbows off the table.
Third, keep your napkin in your lap, ready to dab any crumbs stuck to your lips.
Finally, stay in your seat, talk in a normal voice and thank the waitress every time she brings you something, even the bill.
Believe me, every one of these were learned over time with many questions on my part. "Why can I have my elbows on the table at home and not here?" Mom never made a big deal about this at home, because Dad always had his elbows on the table. Obviously, his mother never took him out for coco and cinnamon raisin toast. So this was a "only when we're out" rule. "Why do we have to tip? Don't they pay her?" Mom explained the economics of the service industry. "Why am I being punished because I eat faster than you?" I wanted to go "window" shop around the store while mom finished, but I always had to wait until she was ready to go. When we did wander around the store, I always ended up at the books. Every few months, Mom would have a little extra money and I could pick out a .59 book.
Our waitress was always the same woman. In the day, she would have been described, with respect, as an older Negro woman. We were about 4 or 5 years away from using "Black" and decades away from using African American. I was mesmerized by her gold front tooth and her streak of white hair. I thought she was beautiful. She wore a white uniform, pink apron, a little cap, a pin with "Hattie" on it and a big smile. She remembered my name and my order. That was so cool. I always wanted to slide into the booth and say “I’ll have the usual”, but I never did. I watched a few too many “Thin Man” movies. If you'd have asked me if she was fat, I would have said "no - she looks just like my mom." But of course, she and my mother were fat. Fat in a round way. Fat in a curvy way. Fat in a "I want to climb up in her lap" way. I was a few years away from learning "fat = ugly and bad".
Mom knew the bus schedule and seemed very good at drawing out the meal, leaving only enough time to pay the bill and catch the bus. This saved her from saying "no" every time I saw something I wanted in the store. Also, we didn't have to stand outside very long, esp. on those cold, snowy mornings. Sitting next to the window, head pressed against the cold glass, watching snowflakes scramble out of our way and burping up chocolate cinnamon - life was so good.
First, always make sure you had enough money to pay for the food and a 3 - 5% tip - this was 40 plus years ago, when gas was .20 a gallon, okay?
Second, keep your elbows off the table.
Third, keep your napkin in your lap, ready to dab any crumbs stuck to your lips.
Finally, stay in your seat, talk in a normal voice and thank the waitress every time she brings you something, even the bill.
Believe me, every one of these were learned over time with many questions on my part. "Why can I have my elbows on the table at home and not here?" Mom never made a big deal about this at home, because Dad always had his elbows on the table. Obviously, his mother never took him out for coco and cinnamon raisin toast. So this was a "only when we're out" rule. "Why do we have to tip? Don't they pay her?" Mom explained the economics of the service industry. "Why am I being punished because I eat faster than you?" I wanted to go "window" shop around the store while mom finished, but I always had to wait until she was ready to go. When we did wander around the store, I always ended up at the books. Every few months, Mom would have a little extra money and I could pick out a .59 book.
Our waitress was always the same woman. In the day, she would have been described, with respect, as an older Negro woman. We were about 4 or 5 years away from using "Black" and decades away from using African American. I was mesmerized by her gold front tooth and her streak of white hair. I thought she was beautiful. She wore a white uniform, pink apron, a little cap, a pin with "Hattie" on it and a big smile. She remembered my name and my order. That was so cool. I always wanted to slide into the booth and say “I’ll have the usual”, but I never did. I watched a few too many “Thin Man” movies. If you'd have asked me if she was fat, I would have said "no - she looks just like my mom." But of course, she and my mother were fat. Fat in a round way. Fat in a curvy way. Fat in a "I want to climb up in her lap" way. I was a few years away from learning "fat = ugly and bad".
Mom knew the bus schedule and seemed very good at drawing out the meal, leaving only enough time to pay the bill and catch the bus. This saved her from saying "no" every time I saw something I wanted in the store. Also, we didn't have to stand outside very long, esp. on those cold, snowy mornings. Sitting next to the window, head pressed against the cold glass, watching snowflakes scramble out of our way and burping up chocolate cinnamon - life was so good.
