Every year we go out to Elgin to cut down our Chrismas tree. And every year we stop at the Cafe 290 in Manor to get their heart attack appetizer, the Chicken Fried Universe: fried green tomatoes, onion rings, and deep fried zucchini, green beans, and mushrooms, with bowls of ranch for dipping (and I guaran-damn-tee you, Karl, this ranch was not homemade):
And every year, we see somebody who looks suspiciously like Santa, sitting at the breakfast counter in civilian clothes, drinking his coffee and reading the Sunday paper. I realize this is as blurry as a Bigfoot photo, but I didn’t want to spook him by using a flash…I swear to God, it’s really him:
And every year I say we are going to get a tree tall enough to touch our 9’3″ living room ceiling, and every year the family overrules me and picks out a tree based on shape and aesthetics instead of pure height:
Six-and-a-half. Sigh.
Cassidy tells me “size isn’t everything, Dad.” And you know, a lot of smart-ass responses immediately come to mind, but none of them are ones you want to say to your 11-year-old daughter.
Santa’s hideout at chicken fried heaven: a family tradition
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Mmmmmm, deep-fried fork.
Cassidy is looking more and more like Gina. Which is a Good Thing. I still remember when I used to see Gina around campus at Rice back in 1980. I had no idea who she was, but thought she was hot.
Fuckin’ size queen.
My xmas tree is plastic. It’s the same size every year.
Ahem. I am the size king.
And my tree will smell better if it catches fire.
King, queen. Tomato, toMAHto.
All I know is, I want nine and I keep having to make do with six-and-a-half.
Really? I’ve never heard anyone say that.
Then you are the size bishop.