As a chubby little kid in the early 1970s,
I was quite the inventor.
Not because I was particularly brilliant. I
just used the wrong words for things.
Whenever I did something for the first
time, instead of saying I got my first Wacky Pack or had my
first Kayo, I would announce that I had invented it.
This drove my Oldman absolutely crazy.
“I invented Wacky Packs and KayO’s today.”
“How the hell did you invent Wacky Packs
Moose?”
“When we drove over to White Hen.”
Perfectly
reasonable explanation if you were five-year-old me.
I invented my First Communion. I invented Saturday morning cartoons. I invented shopping malls. I invented those new CTA cars with the windows that didn't open. I invented Elton John and the Beatles.
I invented popping a wheelie on my bike. Never
before accomplished by a five-year-old kid on a Schwinn.
I even invented mixing Cap'n Crunch Peanut-Butter with Honeycomb. Actually, I did come up with that one.
I invented putting a baseball card near the spokes,
so my Schwinn sounded like a Kawasaki. Sorry to the millions of American kids
who thought they came up with that one themselves. It was me.
… And then there was ice cream.
For
the first few years of my life, as far as I knew there were two flavors,
chocolate and vanilla. Then my world expanded.
Mint
ice cream? Me.
New
York cherry? Me again.
Pralines
and cream? You guessed it. Another John Shepley invention.
The best part was that I would announce these
breakthroughs in front of my Oldman's work buddies. They would scratch their
heads, look over at Dad and ask some variation of…
“What the f**k is wrong with your kid?”
Don Shepley had his answer ready.
“My son is the next goddamn Einstein. Lord
help us when he takes a jet somewhere when he gets older. He will have invented
air travel. He already thinks he found the Illinois Central Railroad.”
Thankfully, I grew out of my Thomas Edison
phase before I heard the lyrics I chalked this morning. Otherwise, Blue Öyster
Cult might owe me some royalties.
Enjoy figuring that one out, Chalkheads.
And enjoy the earworm when you do.
Which brings me to today's other
important subject. The Cuban sandwich.
I didn't discover the Cubano until
sometime in the last ten years or so and, for the record, I did not
invent it, but whoever did deserves my respect.
Pork, ham, Swiss cheese, pickles and
mustard pressed together on Cuban bread until the whole magnificent creation is
hot, crispy and gooey.
That is what I call a pretty damn
good samich.
It is probably never going to become a
staple on the Chicago food pyramid. Around here, the gyros, hot dog and
Italian beef have pretty well staked out their territory, but every once in a
while, even a Chicago guy needs to wander off the reservation.
There is a Cuban joint on the other side of
town, and I'm thinking today might be a good day to walk over and grab
myself a Cubano.
So
go out there and have yourself a fanfuckingtastic Sunday Funday.
Turn Blue Öyster Cult up to eleven
on the volume knob.
Grab yourself a Cuban sandwich and if you
happen to try something today that you have never done before, feel free to
tell everybody you invented it.
Five-year-old Jumbo would understand
completely.
