A Post About Nothing

And then there was "A Post About Nothing." My friend, the bbq man, said it was brilliant. You got to love constructive criticism like that, eh? Here it is in its entirety. Submitted for your approval and perusal:

Speaking of records, there were 78's, 45's, and 33 1/3's.

It also reminds me of my humble beginnings as I made my way onto the team, the Piccadilly team. And it goes without saying, but it was back in the day.My first g.m. and the one who hired me was the legendary Peter Principle, who recently retired, but is in good condition. A daily regimen of pushups and situps being the key.

I was fresh out of Rowdy High and in need of gainful employment. Noticing the wariness in his eyes, I assured him that hiring me would be a good decision. Peter relunctantly gave me the job. My first assignment and job title was prep cook.

"You can be the next Joe Polito, cat," alluding to the fact that J.P. had begun his humble beginnings there.

They gave me a list to complete. First was picking the meat off the turkey bones. Next a sack of onions to peel. Then they got technical:

"I want you to make 50 lbs. of chop beef, young fella," said Chef Boyardee.

I found out later Chef B. was a legend in his own mind. Being on special payroll, he had a habit of being late to work and took extended leave of absences, some authorized, some not.

Anyway, no one showed me how to proceed. They just gave me a card with the directions and ingredients. No one knew of my medical condition ( back then it wasn't cool to be infirmed ) and the dyslexia reared its ugly head. The chop beef was supposed to be an 80-20 mixture. Got that right. But used 80% fat and 20% lean meat. So they fell apart. And the next day. And the next day. And the next day....

I was concerned that my job may be in jeopardy. But, Peter, in his most sympathetic voice, told me that I had the unofficial Piccadilly record for consecutive days with falling apart chop beef.

"Am I fired, Mr. Principle?

"No, son. You have potential. Forget the chop beef." he said as he showed me a box. Full of frozen patties.

"What's that?" I said meekly.

"TQC, cat. The wave of the future." he said.

"TQC? Huh? What's that?"

"It's an acronym, cat. Stands for Traditional, Quality, Cumbaya."

That's how it all started. My career and tqc. And the list of tqc products kept growing. And growing. Coincidentally, after my stints at making rolls, biscuits, garlic bread, mayonnaise, etc. And as my prep cook career was heating up, an old staple was meeting its waterloo.

"I hate to tell you this, men." said Mr. Principle. "But the days of cooking with animal fat are over."

As he made his statement, I remembered the freshly ground pot of suet that had been cooking on the range. The familiar burnt smell permeated the building.

"Cat!!!!"

"Sorry, Mr. Principle."

"Cat, we all make mistakes. We're only human. But I got the o.k. We want you in mgmt. You've got what it takes."

I took off my apron and paper cap. And discarded my white kitchen shirt in the hamper. As I was heading out the door, Chef Boyardee chided me for allowing the suet to burn.

"Chef. Sorry about the suet. They want me in mgmt. The brass at the G.O. approved it."

"Do you know what you're getting into, cat?"

"Don't know."

"We'll miss you in the kitchen."

"I'll miss you, too. Especially when I had to cover for you, [ and your lazy ass ] when you didn't show up. Farewell and adieu, chef."

"No one will ever beat your record. Cumbaya, cat."

"Cumbaya, chef."

Farewell and adieu, v.c.


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