overnight sensation

I have always liked oatmeal. Yeah, I know… most kids didn’t. Most kids were forced to eat oatmeal. “Eat it!,” Mother would jeer through clenched teeth, “It’s good for you!” Well, that’s all a kid needed to hear… that something was good for them! They would instantly balk and frown and turn their noses up at it. But not me. I liked oatmeal and I remember that my mom cooked it – yes! actually, cooked it in a pot on the stove – on random weekend mornings. 

Comedian Shelley Berman did a routine about finding a black speck of something in a glass of milk. In this particular routine, he alluded to oatmeal just being comprised entirely of black specks, therefore he avoided it. Character actor Jack Gilford would put his trademarked “rubber face” to use in his impression of a pot of oatmeal boiling on the stove – blinking his eyes, puffing out his cheeks and opening and closing his mouth to simulate the surface activity of cooking the breakfast staple. Both of these comedy bits made me laugh, probably because I liked oatmeal… and probably because they were funny. 

 

When instant oatmeal was introduced, I was able to make it myself. I’d fill our tea kettle with water, flick on the burner. In a few minutes, the built-in whistle would alert me that the water within was boiled and ready to add to an envelope of instant oatmeal. I had breakfast and my mom was able to sleep a bit longer on a weekend morning. 

I have always enjoyed all-you-can eat buffets, especially breakfast buffets, usually experienced in a hotel lobby after a one-night stay while driving from Philadelphia to Florida. Larger, more expansive breakfast buffets were availed on the many cruises I have taken with my wife. The buffet is my favorite part of cruising, the breakfast buffet especially. The choices are nearly endless, with large platters of scrambled eggs, pancakes, waffles, hash brown potatoes, along with various meat options for the carnivores. Somewhere among the breakfast offerings is a selection of hot cereals, each in a shiny metal cylinder with a long-handled ladle at the ready. There’s always oatmeal, as well as cream of wheat (another of my favorites) and grits (a Southern corn-based specialty that I have enjoyed from time to time). I usually supplement my overly-laden breakfast plate with a bowl of oatmeal topped with a helping of brown sugar… eating it as sort of an appetizer to my cruise buffet breakfast mish-mash. 

Every so often, my dear Mrs. P will break out a pot and a cook oatmeal for the two of us, stirring up memories of when we were still kids in our respective kitchens or sailing on a giant ship in the middle of who-knows-where. 

Game changer.

If you are a regular reader of this blog (if it even has regular readers) or if you know me IRL (as the kids say), you probably are familiar with my disdain – that’s right! seething disdain! – for the overuse of the mawkish superlatives that have overrun our everyday conversation, specifically in our collective online personas. Words like “amazing” and “game-changer,” and their regular misuse, make me cringe. I have often railed against the use of the word “amazing” applied to situations that are clearly not amazing. Your kid passing a spelling test is not amazing. No one has ever prepared and consumed a grilled cheese sandwich or a piece of cake that was amazing. There has never been a movie or television show or concert or any other form of entertainment that was amazing. However, on the off-chance that there was one of these that could possibly qualify as “amazing,” chances are you didn’t see it and you didn’t witness eight of them… in the same week. Sure, there have been good food and good movies and good performances in academics, but “amazing?” Come on… Organ transplants are amazing. Discovering a cure for polio is amazing. Sending astronauts to work and live on a space station floating somewhere way up in the sky is amazing. The fiftieth steak that some French guy cooked in a restaurant…. Amazing? Really?

Do you want to know what a “game-changer” is? The shot clock in basketball. In 2018, the NBA implemented the 24-second shot clock and that changed the game. In 2022, Major League baseball decided, in an effort to speed up boring baseball games, to start each half-extra inning, after the regulation nine have been played to a tie score, with an automatic runner in scoring position on second base. Just this season, a regimented pitch clock has been installed to force pitchers to stop fucking around on the mound and throw the goddamn ball already. Those are game changers. You know what’s not a “game-changer?” Putting salt on caramel or adding a rinse aid to your dishwasher. 

I’m not sure when I first heard about it, but I have become aware of a thing called “overnight oats.” Now, I don’t profess to be a chef of any sorts, but the concept of “overnight oats” sounded pretty simple. Just follow the recommended quantities for cooking oatmeal, but instead of combining everything in a pot on the stove, you just mix it all up in a bowl, cover it and stick it in the refrigerator for – guess how long? That’s correct! Overnight! When you wake up, you can be treated to a healthy, filling nutritious breakfast… that is, if you don’t mind cold oatmeal. (Some recipes do suggest heating the concoction up in the microwave, but the general consensus of folks who have jumped on the “overnight oats” train eat it cold.) 

I have seen a number of online posts singing the praises of overnight oats. People have labeled overnight oats “game changers” and “amazing.” Closer to real life, one of the more vocal advocates of overnight oats is my brother-in-law (no, not that one, the other one). A self-proclaimed authority on pretty much everything, he has been making overnight oats for quite some time. He has told Mrs. Pincus (his sister) how “amazing” overnight oats are and how she and I should try its magical properties ourselves. He has not recommended this to me directly since I have not personally spoken a word to him in over a decade. (And that, my friend, is a story for another blog post!) Nevertheless, always looking for another option for breakfast, I decided to give overnight oats a shot. 

...and liddle lamzy divey

On a recent Sunday evening, I prepared a lidded Tupperware bowl with a cup of dry oats, a cup of almond milk and the amount of brown sugar I would normally add to a bowl of hot oatmeal. I thoroughly mixed the ingredients together and snapped the lid shut. I found a little spot in the refrigerator in which the mixture could congeal or ferment or do whatever it is that takes place over eight hours in cold confines. A few recipes proposed adding peanut butter, jelly, nuts, chia seeds (ch-ch-ch-CHIA!) or other enhancements, but I stuck with what I was used to for my initial run. I closed the refrigerator door. Technically, I was cooking. 

My alarm went off on Monday morning and I hopped out of bed at 5:30 with the start of another work week ahead of me. I went downstairs to the kitchen and flicked on the Keurig coffee maker. But, instead of removing a bowl from the cabinet above the sink and filling it with Honey Nut Cheerios like I have done a zillion times before, I went to the refrigerator to get, what I anticipated would be, a brand-new revelation in breakfast at the Pincus house. 

The bowl was right where I left it, on the shelf in the refrigerator. I popped open the lid. No elves had come to dance and sprinkle their magic. No visible chemical reaction had taken place. The oatmeal appeared to be oatmeal. Cold, but still oatmeal. I made a cup of coffee and took my breakfast upstairs to watch the remaining minutes of a fifty-plus year old episode of Dragnet and an older one of My Three Sons before leaving for work. 

Before scooping up the inaugural first taste, I stirred the thick mélange to reincorporate the components. I dunked my spoon below the lumpy surface and brought up a generous helping of overnight oats… and into my mouth it went. 

It was cold. 

 

And bland. 

And it had a weird texture and, to steal a phrase from many a program on The Food Network, it had an unappealing mouth feel. 

It tasted like cold oatmeal. Like oatmeal I had made and forgotten about. 

A dramatization.

Mrs. Pincus always says that I’m a “good sport.” I will do things I don’t really care to do. I will go to places I don’t really care to go to and I will eat things I don’t really care to eat. And I will not complain about it. Well…. Maybe I’ll complain about it a little. (Does writing a lengthy blog count as a “complaint?”) I ate the entire bowl of overnight oats. It was not good. I did not enjoy it. I ate it knowing that it would not be the last meal I would ever eat. With each bite, I swigged some coffee to mask the unpleasant taste until the bowl was empty. 

On Tuesday, I had a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast. Overnight oats will not darken my refrigerator ever again. 

My game was not changed, nor was I amazed. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i've got a lovely bunch of coconuts

I was a picky eater when I was a kid. My father would often accuse me of only limiting my food intake to pizza. (To be honest, he wasn't that far off.) My mother would regularly accompany meals with all sorts of vegetables. With the exception of corn and potatoes, I would not eat the vegetables my mother tried to push on me. Potatoes, in any form, were just mere steps away from French fries... and I loved French fries. Corn... well, corn was corn and as that young man in the latest You Tube viral video has confirmed "It's corn!" But, those others....? Yeesh! I wouldn't touch 'em with a ten-foot fork. No amount of butter or salt or anything would get me to like string beans.

As I got older, my eating habits changed. Considerably. I ate salad, something I would customarily slide over to my mother's side of the table when dining in a restaurant. I ate broccoli, granted it had to be mixed in a spicy sauce and served with a plate full of other chopped up ingredients within the cozy and mysterious confines of a Chinese restaurant. I still pick sliced tomatoes off of a hoagie, but I will happily consume the lettuce and onion, an act unheard of when I was a child. My wife often marvels at my evolved eating habits, commenting, "Your mother would be so proud of you!" I'm pretty sure she would.

Almost a decade ago, I wrote a pretty disparaging piece about raisins and my dislike of them. I was convinced that there was a universal conspiracy to get people to eat raisins. Not to necessarily like raisins, just to eat them. I observed that raisins were covertly snuck into various foods in a effort to get them eaten. They had to be hidden in bread and noodle casseroles and cakes. The name of a particular dish could not include the actual word "raisin," for fear no one would eat it. So, things like "cinnamon rolls" were never identified as "raisin cinnamon roils." "Coffee cake" was similarly ambiguous about all of its components. Even for the tiniest amount of raisins, they'll say: "You can't even taste the raisins!" It's like the people who say: "I know it's a Jim Carrey movie, but you'll like it." It's still has Jim Carrey in it! Only "raisin bread" appears ballsy enough to put its most reviled ingredient first in its name. Obviously, that was for those other people. You know, the ones proliferating the whole "raisin agenda." But, I hereby rescind my stance on raisins. I like them. I eat them. I concede that they are not among my favorite foods, but I no longer gag when I discover one in a bite of baked good, nor to I make a little pile of them on the side of my plate when politely eating something that contains them.

However, there is one food I will never ever ever happily eat. They say " never say never." Well, I'm saying never. And I'm talking about you, coconut. Coconut is horrible! Just horrible. I know, I know. All you coconut lovers will disagree with me. Look, I've had coconut. I believe I am still chewing coconut I ate when I was nine. It is a taste and mouth sensation on the same level as root canal. No, I take that back. I've had several root canal procedures. Eating coconut is worse. I have become so highly sensitive to coconut that I can tell if someone said the word "coconut" while they were preparing a dish I am eating. When I was a kid and would return from a night of Halloween trick-or-treating, I would pull out all of the coconut based candy from my bag and try to make trades with my brother (he actually liked coconut - eeech!) If a trade could not be agreed upon — fuck it! — I'd just give him the goddamn coconut rather that have it mixed in with my nominal candy haul. When I took my son out for Halloween, I taught him to say "trick or treat" and "nothing with coconut." When he got a little older and developed an actual fondness for coconut (whose kid are you?), my days of ransacking his Halloween spoils had ended.

Not a cow.

A few years ago, based on the advice of a doctor, I began eating breakfast on a daily basis. This was a meal that I skipped for most of my adult life. But after a series of vasovagal syncopes, my doctor recommended that I eat breakfast every morning to combat the feeling of hunger during the day, thereby preventing future fainting episodes. So, every morning, before I leave for work, I pour myself a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. Nothing extravagant and no actual cooking is involved. I always make sure there is milk in the house, a regular requirement that lapsed after my son moved out on his own. One day, a year or so ago, my son suggested that I switch to almond milk, citing its health benefits. He explained that dairy-based milk is passé. I was hesitant at first, but, once I tasted almond milk, I was hooked. The "unsweetened" variety has no discernable taste and, I believe, is lower in calories than the stuff that comes from mistreated cows. So almond milk it is... and has been for some time now.

Last week, after seeing that the current supply of almond milk was running low, I added it to our running shopping list. During the day, Mrs Pincus went to the supermarket and purchased everything on said list. The next morning, I began my daily ritual of turning on the Keurig, getting a bowl from the kitchen cabinet, getting cereal from a different kitchen cabinet and grabbing the carton of almond milk from the refrigerator. I grabbed the newly purchased almond milk, removed the safety seal and poured an amount over the waiting Honey Nut Cheerios in my bowl — just like I've done on countless mornings. I picked up the bowl and mug and headed upstairs for some classic TV reruns before I left for work. I plopped myself down on the sofa, flicked on the TV and put the first heaping spoonful of cereal in my mouth.

Something was..... off.

I looked in the bowl. Was the cereal stale? Had something gotten into it? Was this the same cereal I had yesterday... because it tasted okay then. Was the milk bad? Was it past its printed expiration date? I sniffed the bowl. I'm not sure was result I was expecting. I sure looked okay. I tasted it again. Yep. Still tasted... off.  I went downstairs to the kitchen to check the carton of almond milk. I bounded down the stairs. I opened refrigerator, removed the new carton of almond milk and examined the label. just under the word "almond" was the phrase "coconut blend." It was mocking me. I could vaguely hear that phrase laughing at me with the maniacal fervor of Cesar Romero's "Joker" from the classic Batman TV series. "HA! HA! HA! YOU CONSUMED COCONUT, YOU UNSUSPECTING FOOL!," it said, as I pictured Romero's lavender-gloved hands clapping with glee and his pancaked face grinning with malevolent accomplishment. And like a dejected Batman, whose arch-villain had just gotten the best of me, I silently fumed. I went back upstairs to — reluctantly — finish my breakfast.

That vile almond-coconut milk blend lasted about ten days. I was determined to use it up. Throwing it away would have been childish. I toughed it out. I hated it. Every minute of it. But I poured it over my cereal every day until the carton was empty. Every day, its repulsive taste of coconut ruined my cereal, filled my mouth and laughed like the Joker. But I was going to show coconut that I was the better man. And when the final drop of almond-coconut milk blend fell from the plastic spout into my bowl, I had won. It didn't kill me. It made me stronger.

And a little nauseous.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

fooling yourself

Plenty of people have called me "dumb" or "stupid" or "foolish" in my life. I am the first one to admit when that is applicable. Unfortunately, it is more often than I'd like. Let me warn you. This post might have you calling me some names. 

For years now, since I was diagnosed with hypertension, I have been starting my day with a bowl of cereal. My doctor believed that it would be beneficial to my health if I ate breakfast every morning and, for the most part, I listen to my doctor... except when I don't. So — on doctor's orders — I eat breakfast. And my cereal of choice is something sensible, unlike my selections when I was a kid. No loops comprised of "froot" or "smacks" glazed with "honey" (or "sugar" if you are as old as I am). Nothing with mini marshmallows or indeterminate shapes that rip apart the roof of my mouth. No, my cereal choices are limited and I have opted for Cheerios.

In 1941, General Mills introduced "Cheerioats," later shortening the name to "Cheerios." They were an extruded circle of tasteless grain that weren't the least bit enhanced by the addition of milk. Touted by the likes of "Cheeri O'Leery," a cute little cartoon character that interacted with the top stars of the day, and later "The Cheerio Kid," an All-American boy who got his muscles from Cheerios, the cereal was a top seller for years. In 1976, over 35 years after its initial introduction, Cheerios offered an alternative flavor - Cinnamon Cheerios. Three years later, they premiered Honey Nut Cheerios. By the time I started to eat breakfast on a daily basis, Honey Nut Cheerios was the top selling brand of cereal in the United States.

I like Honey Nut Cheerios. I like them a lot. I go through a box approximately every ten days. To be honest, I don't require a lot of variety in what I eat. I have been eating a bowl of cereal every day for the past seven years and the overwhelming majority of those bowls have been filled with Honey Nut Cheerios. Every once in a while, I decide to switch to another kind of cereal, but I always find myself coming back to Honey Nut Cheerios. As a matter of fact, while I am eating a different kind of cereal, I try to  calculate how much longer the contents of the box will last until I can return to my old stand-by. I don't want to be wasteful. I will dutifully eat a bowl of cereal that I do not like just to finish it off. It won't be the last thing I ever eat (until it actually is), so I eat and grin and bear it. 

My usual choice — when I stray from Honey Nut Cheerios — is Quaker Corn Chex. These are awful. They are thin, sharp-edged squares that are reminiscent of eating milk-soaked throwing stars. "Corn" is actually the most appealing flavor of the available "Chex" line of cereal that includes wheat, rice and their own version of a honey nut flavor. I have not tried their take on honey nut, but based on the blandness of the ones I have tried, I will pass for now. Chex has produced and discontinued a number of flavors over the years. I imagine they all lacked any sort of taste and decided to stick with the unpalatable originals. I have tried various versions of fruit-infused cereal including several varieties of raisin bran, blueberry and strawberry Cheerios and a limited edition box of frosted flakes labeled "banana creme" with a smiling Tony the Tiger offering up a brimming bowl of the stuff. The freshly-opened box emitted a fake, chemically, laboratory-conceived aroma of bananas. The flakes themselves appeared to be standard Kellogg's Frosted Flakes, but the overpowering smell made them difficult to consume. But consume them I did and, after ten days, I happily tossed the flattened yellow-hued box into the recycling bin. 

I have tried to introduce regular Frosted Flakes into my cereal rotation, but they are coated with a ridiculous amount of sugar. I don't remember them being so sweet when I was a kid, or, perhaps I'm just more sensitive to sugar since I stopped eating candy bars and ice cream and stopped drinking soda. So, I always seem to gravitate back to Honey Nut Cheerios. I don't know why I keep straying. All of the cereal I eat that isn't Honey Nut Cheerios, I do not like! As a matter of fact, when we are compiling our weekly shopping list, I have told my wife to add Honey Nut Cheerios on a regular basis. I have also said that if I ever ask for anything but Honey Nut Cheerios, just write "Honey Nut Cheerios" anyway — no matter what I ask for. It has become a running joke in the Pincus house. Mrs. P asks if I need cereal. I answer "yes, I do" and I mention that I'd like to try something different. She laughs and — not matter what I say — she adds "Honey Nut Cheerios" to the list. I have gone so far as to request Gerber's baby cereal, the likes of which have not seen the inside of my house in over thirty years and she writes "Honey Nut Cheerios" as she nods her head in agreement.

Today, however, I managed to convince her to purchase something called "Cheerios Cinnamon Oat Crunch." I don't know... it was late at night... we were tired... Mrs. Pincus was reviewing our shopping list for an early morning curb-side pick-up and I nonchalantly snuck the request in as though it was another head of lettuce. All I know is... as soon as I finish the box of Honey Nut Cheerios I am currently working on, I will crack open that box of Cheerios Cinnamon Oat Crunch, fill up a bowl, add milk and prepare myself for more disappointment.

Almost as disappointing as reading an entire blog post about me and my eating cereal habits.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I eat cannibals

I love advertising. I'm one of those people who does not fast-forward through commercials. I actually enjoy watching commercials. I like the clever ones. I like the creative ones. I even like the stupid ones, in a "what not to do" capacity. I suppose it's because I've been in the marketing/advertising field for so many years, I feel I need to keep on top of my industry, making myself aware of current trends and not becoming complacent to rest upon my proverbial laurels.

I like to research and trace the history of advertising, especially for a product that has been around for a while. It is interesting to see how the methods have changed (or haven't changed) for the same product over a period of years or even decades. I often wonder who was the lucky ad agency representative that was able to convince a stuffy corporate executive to loosen up a bit with their ad campaigns. Who was able to get Charles Grigg to stop calling his carbonated elixir "Bib-Label Lithiated Lemon-Lime Soda," shorten it to "7Up" and brand it as a psychedelic alternative to cola? It turned out to be excellent advice. See? Some courageous company decision-maker has to be the one to take a chance. To change for the benefit of company growth.

Consumer foods giant General Mills has been a leader in product and product marketing for over a century and a half. They didn't become a twenty-three billion dollar-a-year company by accident. Considering they produce staple goods similar to those produced by other companies, marketing was key in General Mills growth and staying power. That's why core brands like Gold Medal remain number one choices among consumers, along with acquired brands like Pillsbury and Green Giant.

Of course, General Mills is synonymous with "cereal." Names like Wheaties, Cheerios and Chex have been around — gosh! — nearly forever. Clever marketing has elevated brands like Trix, Cocoa Puffs and Lucky Charms to lofty levels, nearly untouchable by competitors. Each of these cereals, introduced in the mid-twentieth century, featured a fun mascot, instantly endearing to the younger target market at which they were aimed. General Mills used this same strategy with subsequent breakfast food introductions — The "Monster" cereals in the 70s, and, my personal favorite, Cinnamon Toast Crunch in 1984.

The evolution of Cinnamon Toast Crunch is an interesting journey through marketing trends and changes. Cinnamon Toast Crunch came along in much the same way as many of its predecessors. It was a crunchy wheat/rice combo coated with cinnamon and sugar. The box initially featured a happy little drawing of a cinnamon-kissed slice of bread and his pal, a smiling cinnamon shaker. These characters soon gave way to three happy, yet bumbling, animated bakers, all decked out in pristine kitchen whites. There was jolly Wendell, the obvious leader of the trio. He was flanked by two unnamed colleagues, although they were inexplicably referred to as "Bob" and "Quello." The group appeared in a series of commercials and their likenesses were emblazoned on box fronts for association and recognition (them there are marketing words!). In 1991, however, Wendell's associates were shown the door and the white-haired baker was flying solo. His visibility was increased and his adventures became the focus of commercials and promotions, including send-away premiums, like plush dolls. Wendell was prominently featured on every redesign of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch box as well as spin-off versions like French Toast Crunch, Peanut Butter Crunch and Frosted Toast Crunch.

But in 2009, after a solo run of eighteen years, the venerable Wendell disappeared. He was replaced by strange little creatures known as "The Crazy Squares." I can only imagine the conversation, and eventual convincing, that took place in the advertising strategy meeting up in the Minnesota corporate headquarters of General Mills. Seated at a long, dark-wood table in the center of a conference room lined with matching dark-wood paneling, the General Mills executive board gathered to be pitched to. A slick, nattily-dressed young man from the contracted ad agency — his head full of outside-the-box creativity and his hair full of mousse — clicked along a PowerPoint presentation while the stuffy seniors stoically sipped water from glasses wet with condensation.

Just after the first few slides displaying growth charts and boring facts and figures, the slick ad man unleashed this guy  — 

A collective gasp from the board members cut the air. Sure, this little character is smiling. Sure, he's full of whimsy and mischief. Sure, he's dusted with sparkly sugar and inviting cinnamon, but there's something... something.... off about him. Something malevolent. As the presentation offered more detail, the true horror was revealed.

Look! The little guy is playful! How cute!

Look! Oh, he's so funny, just floating in the bowl!

Ha! He's a little dickens! Getting silly with another Cinnamon Toast "Crazy Square."

Oh, this is a little weird, but I guess it's fun and those guys are adorable!

Wait! WAIT! What the fuck? What's going on here?

HOLY SHIT! THEY'RE EATING EACH OTHER!

At that point, I assume, the CEO stood up at the table, cleared his throat and leaned forward. He was prepared to send slick ad guy and his crazy new campaign on the quickest route to the elevator. But then, suddenly, he had a moment of clarity. A vision. An epiphany. "If this campaign riled me up," he thought, "imagine how it will make kids feel! Kids love this shit! And, if kids love it, they'll beg Mom to buy those Crazy Squares!" A smile beamed across the CEO's face. He blotted his dampened brow with a monogrammed handkerchief and commended the slick ad guy. "Genius, my boy!," he bellowed, "Genius!" The slick ad guy smiled smugly. The board members applauded.

And so, the stalwart, reliable, friendly Cinnamon Toast Crunch became edgier and more aggressive in its advertising, taking a somewhat dangerous route. But, it worked! They took a gamble and it worked out great. It was no longer about "gee, our cereal is good and it tastes good and it's good for you" and hundreds of testaments that have been repeated over and over. It was now a shocking, attention-grabbing surprise with very little to do with the actual cereal. The Crazy Squares have been shilling for Cinnamon Toast Crunch for seven years, even appearing on new holiday-themed versions of the cereal, as well as a new chocolate version and reintroduced peanut butter variety.

But what ever became of Wendell? I'd be willing to bet those Crazy Square bastards ate him.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

come on-a my house

I had a very weird experience at a Waffle House almost 20 years ago. It was so weird — so very surreal — that I shied away from the iconic restaurant chain on countless family road trips over the years. Somewhere along the southern portion of Interstate 95, my family (Me, Mrs. P and our young son) had stopped for the evening at a midway point on our drive to Walt Disney World in central Florida. After one night's stay at one of the many motels that dot the off-ramps of the interstate, I loaded the car with our luggage and we set out for the last leg of our journey. Just across the access road from our evening's accommodations was a small, narrow, yellow-topped building adorned with a single line of sans serif type identifying the place as "WAFFLE HOUSE" — plain and simple. Seeing the establishment, I thought I'd grab a couple of cups of coffee for me and the Mrs. to perk us up for the next 300 or so miles. Mrs. P set our son up with a pre-pack bowl of cereal on his molded plastic car tray (that doubled as a play surface for a variety of "Thomas the Tank Engine" toy trains when he wasn't eating) and I popped in to the Waffle House.

It was as though I had stepped into The Twilight Zone. A hunched row of coverall-clad men lined the gold-flecked Formica counter. Some had heavy ceramic mugs poised at their mouths. Others shoveled forkfuls of breakfast into their maws, while still others worked their jaws to chew and digest what they had already eaten. On the other side of the counter, a large man wrapped in a grease-stained apron was bent over a smoking, open grill. His meaty fist clenched a metal spatula that he used to poke and prod a massive pile of hash-browned potatoes. No one said a word. The only sound was made by the spatula clinking against the griddle. (I expected the cook to turn around and reveal himself to be Rod Serling.) I stood by the counter waiting to be noticed. A waitress approached. Her stringy hair was pulled up and tucked under a droopy doily holding the mess in place. She wore a stained apron that matched that of the cook. (Perhaps it was the official Waffle House uniform.)

"Wut kin I getcha?," she asked with a tone that implied she was doing me a favor.

"Two cups of coffee to go, please.," I requested.

She looked at me as though I just spoke to her in a rare Swahili dialect. "Wuuuut?," she lolled in a lazy Southern drawl. I repeated my order, this time more slowly, trying to enunciate each word. She shook her head and fumbled under the counter for a minute. When she brought her hand back into view, her fingers were laced through the handles of two off-white ceramic mugs.

"We got theeese.," she said, gesturing at the mugs with her head, "We ain't go no other kinda cups."

"You don't have a cardboard cup with a lid?," I asked incredulously.

"Nuh-uh.," she replied as she frowned and shook her head. "Jes' theeese." She was interrupted by a ringing telephone which now took her full attention.. She lifted the receiver and asked, "Huh-lo?" A tinny, electronic voice chattered something unintelligible through the connection. The waitress dropped her hand holding the phone to her side and she hollered something unintelligible toward a man seated at the counter munching on a twisted strip of bacon. Still chewing, the man rose from his seat, dragged himself over to the waitress and took the phone from her hand. He spoke a stream of garbled words that were thick and muddled in Southern vernacular. I swear I could not understand a single word this guy was saying. When he had finished his conversation, he stared at the phone as though he had never seen nor held anything like it in his life. He pushed the brim of his mesh trucker hat back and said, "This phone don't got no hang up button on it. How do I hang it up if'n it don't got th' button?," he said mournfully. He examined the phone more closely, turning it over to various angles and narrowing his eyes as if to discover a secret hidden switch or lever.

Totally spooked by the entire scenario presented before me, I offered my thanks to the waitress and backed away towards to the door. I jumped back into the passenger's side of my car and asked my wife to just find a Dunkin Donuts, relating the otherworldly episode as she drove.

And that was it. That was the only time I ever set foot in a Waffle House. We have driven to Florida numerous times over the years, and we have passed many, many Waffle Houses (there is one at nearly every single exit on I-95 between Philadelphia and Orlando), but we have always turned our noses up at them as a meal option.

Until today.

Last Saturday, Mrs. Pincus and I embarked on another drive to Florida, again with our son — now 28 years old — and his girlfriend. Recently, I had seen some social media posts from a few touring bands (specifically President Obama favorite Low Cut Connie and national pastime rockers The Baseball Project) featuring late-night stops at Waffle House, with its kitschy, Americana charm on full display. As we made our way down the interstate, I suggested we stop for dinner (breakfast served anytime and what's more fun than breakfast for dinner!) at a Waffle House. According to our GPS and Google maps, we had many nearby locations from which to choose. I was rebuffed. As a matter of fact, I was triple rebuffed. I was willing to give Waffle House a shot at redemption, but I was out-voted and we pulled into a Sonic Drive-In near Walterboro, South Carolina. Now, I'm okay with Sonic, but, I really wanted Waffle house.

After a week at the Walt Disney World Resort and not a mention of Waffle House, we packed up the car for the ride home. We decided to call it a night at a creepy little Quality Inn in Lumberton, North Carolina. Surrounding ours and the other hotels, our food options included Subway, Cracker Barrel, McDonald's and Waffle House. My fellow travelers opted to order a pizza from a local Domino's. My suggestion of Waffle House was not even acknowledged.

Early this morning, we decided to forgo the complimentary breakfast to a.) get the hell away from the strange atmosphere of the Lumberton Quality Inn* and b.) get out on the homeward-bound road. Once again, I suggested Waffle House and, once again, I was dismissed.

We headed north and, approximately fifty miles from our morning starting point, we all began to feel a little hungry. We briefly drove through the desolate and sketchy-looking town of Dunn, quickly making our way back to the highway. Approaching Benson, we exited I-95 and immediately found ourselves staring at — you guessed it! — a Waffle House. Mrs. P turned to my boy and his girl crammed into the back seat of my RAV 4 and plaintively offered up Waffle House with a "let's just pacify Dad" tone in her voice. I detected a collective sigh of defeat as they nodded in reluctant agreement. We parked next to a big, maroon Harley and entered the joint, my son muttering "Are you happy now?," as he walked past me in the parking lot.

Where the magic happens.

We were greeted at the door by a smiling young man in a "Waffle House" cap and bow tie, who proudly and warmly afforded a toothy "Good Morning." We seated ourselves at the counter and scanned the colorful laminated menus. A cheerful waitress, whose name tag identified her as "Jaz," provided some of the best coffee I ever had. We each placed our order and watched with fascination as the well-rehearsed assembly line pumped out platter after platter with automated factory-like efficiency. Each person at the grill was tasked with a specific job. One guy manned the five smoking waffle irons. One guy oversaw four multi-slice toasters. One young lady flattened sizzling sausage patties and bacon strips. Another guy prepared the much-storied hash browns, meticulously adding each of the famous supplemental ingredients. The last guy had six frying pans simultaneously cooking eggs. It was truly a spectacle!

Scattered, smothered, covered, peppered.

My coffee was refilled by the smiling greeter after nearly every sip I took. Soon, Jaz flicked our platters to us like she was dealing cards in blackjack. They were welcoming, traditional American breakfasts and they were beautiful! I got two eggs — sunny-side up — a couple slices of buttered toast and a side of world-famous hash browns that were "scattered, smothered, covered and peppered." That's Waffle House lingo for "spread across the grill with onions, cheese and jalapeno peppers." I enhanced the dish with some of their own brand (the humorously named Casa de Waffle) of picante sauce from a fully-stocked condiment caddy, along with a few spicy splashes of Tabasco and I was in business. Everything was de-lish-ous! My travelling party was enjoying their choices as well. We ate and watched the grill-side "entertainment." Several staff members (including the happy crew at the grill) asked how we were enjoying our meal and, of course, my coffee cup was filled again and again. It was comfort food at its best, we didn't want to leave.

When we finally finished every last crumb on our plates, I did my best to hold back a few "I told you so"s, as my family sheepishly admitted that Waffle House was a pretty good choice for this and future travels.

Oh, we'll be back all right. Maybe next time I'll even try the waffles.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*If you find yourself in the vicinity of Lumberton, North Carolina... first of all, I feel sorry for you, but, if you are seeking a place for an overnight stay, I'd avoid the Quality Inn. I would suggest any of the other hotels at the Exit 20 complex. The Days Inn and the Howard Johnson's both looked nice. Hell, the parking lot of the Burger King looked nice in comparison to the Quality Inn (a misnomer if I ever heard one).

say my name, say my name, say my stupid name

When I was a kid, we only bought nationally-advertised, brand name groceries. Although it was never openly discussed or mandated, store-brand products were for poor people or worse — old people. At least that was what I gathered from my mother's supermarket purchases. Heinz ketchup, Hellman's mayonnaise, Campbell's soup — those were the names that received unwavering loyalty in the Pincus household. 

Recently, I radically changed my eating habits. For years, like 31 million other Americans, I skipped breakfast, opting instead for a cup of coffee to carry me through the day. Last year, I began eating a bowl of cereal every morning. As much as I wanted, I forced myself to avoid childhood favorites like Cap'n Crunch and Froot Loops*. Instead, I chose the more sensible Cheerios family of cereals, specifically Honey Nut Cheerios, the most popular of the many Cheerios varieties and the most popular cereal in America for several years running. Despite not having a cool prize tucked within the inner product bag, the cereal itself is pretty good. Not too sweet and not nearly as bland as the plain Cheerios that my son teethed upon as a baby. 

Under my newly-adopted eating regimen, I noticed that I was going through a big box of Honey Nut Cheerios approximately every ten days. At nearly five bucks a pop, this was getting pretty costly. So, the next time my morning meal supply was running low, I decided to try to be a little more frugal with my choices.

At Acme Market (known as Albertson's in some parts of the country), I compared the price of the national Honey Nut Cheerios to that of the store-branded "Essential Everyday" lengthy but closely-named "Honey Nut Toasted Oats." It was considerably cheaper. I know that "cheaper" usually translates to "inferior quality," but I was willing to risk it for a nearly two-and-a-half dollar savings. The next morning, I poured myself a bowl of generically-named, yet similar-looking Honey Nut Toasted Oats and doused it with milk. It was not bad. It was not Cheerios, but it was not bad. I didn't gag. I didn't toss the bowl's contents down the garbage disposal in disgust.** As a matter of fact, it tasted pretty good. Satisfied, I ate a bowl every morning until the box was empty. I could definitely taste the difference, but it wasn't so different that I wasn't able to eat and enjoy it.

I decided to try the offerings from other stores and other store brands. Guess what? Every store has their own brand of cereal that is comparable to the mighty Cheerios... and they all carry a considerably smaller price tag. As far as their taste, they are all pretty good. Hell, at 6:30 in the morning, my taste buds aren't fully awake anyway. As a humorous bonus, they all boast unimaginative and innocuous names, so as not to prompt a lawsuit from the good folks at General Mills. My personal favorite is Walmart's Honey Nut Spins. (They could have gone with "Loops" or "Hoops" or "Wheels" or even "Circles," but they chose "Spins" even though the little oat morsels remain perfectly still from the box to bowl and all through the breakfast duration. I watched. Not a single spin was detected.) Walmart, it should be noted, is the undisputed king of nearly-homophonic store-brand names, with their upstart line of sodas like "Dr. Thunder" and "Mountain Lightning" taking on national competitors. I think you know which ones I mean. 

Ancient? No thank you.

So, against everything my mother taught me about grocery shopping, I have stopped purchasing name-brand cereal in favor of the store-brand counterparts. I have even expanded beyond breakfast, choosing store-brand bagged salad over Dole or Fresh Express and store-brand pickles over brands like Vlasic. There's one place I draw the line, though, when it comes to food. I don't care if it has an affiliation with a national trusted brand or not, I refuse to purchase and consume any sort of food that proclaims its contents are "ancient." I mean aren't these things supposed to have an expiration date? 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Studies have shown that Froot Loops are not now, nor have they ever been, made with real froot.
** Don't throw cereal down the garbage disposal anyway. Trust me on this. Your plumber will thank you.

breakfast in america

Jesus Christ, did I love Fruit Brute! 

In 1971, the geniuses at General Mills released two new cereals that sported monsters on the boxes instead of the usual happy elves or rambunctious tiger or some racist character that was slightly less offensive than Little Black Sambo. Monsters, goddammit! How cool was that! In '71, I was of the prime target age group to which these sugar-coated, marshmallow-enhanced empty calories were marketed. In 1974, the brilliance struck again, as the good folks in the test kitchens of General Mills released - nay, unleashed - Fruit Brute. It was an early morning dream come true. Where the first incarnation of the monster cereals were standard kid-friendly fare of chocolate (Count Chocula) and strawberry (Franken Berry), they crossed the innovation line with Fruit Brute. Fruit-flavored cereal (or at least some laboratory's interpretation of fruit flavors) mixed with lime-flavored marshmallows. Lime! Motherfucking lime! This took the most important meal of the day to a higher level. And, as a bonus, there was a werewolf on the box!  A werewolf! Oh my God, be still my adolescent heart! I couldn't get enough Fruit Brute.

Well, General Mills discontinued the manufacture of Fruit Brute the year I got married, but I had long since stopped eating cereals that were geared to children (with the exception of the occasional bowl of Cap'n Crunch). Three years later, Fruity Yummy Mummy was introduced as a feeble substitute, but the scare comparison between a vicious, bloodthirsty lycanthrope and a gaily wrapped dead guy with a shit-eating grin was nearly non-existent. Besides, I had begun to observe the traditional values of kashrut (keeping kosher). It seems those delicious marshmallow bits that propelled me through my youth were trayf (not kosher). They were chock full of gelatin with is made from... well, if I told you, you'd probably throw up and then swear off marshmallows (and Jello and Peeps and Circus Peanuts) forever. And then throw up again.

As this summer drew to a close, my son emailed me a link to an online article about a limited-edition Halloween distribution of the monster cereals. Now, General Mills has done this in the past several years, re-releasing Count Chocula, Franken Berry and the elusive blueberry-flavored Boo Berry in redesigned boxes graced with hi-tech and distorted renditions of the familiar monster mascots. But this year, the line-up included Fruit Brute (now, inexplicably spelled "Frute Brute"). Childhood memories surged through my once sugar-addled brain. Visions of bowls full of brightly-colored bits swimming in pastel-tinged milk as Tennessee Tuxedo and Underdog flickered across my black-and-white television screen filled my consciousness. My head nearly exploded when I read that Target stores would be offering the cereal exclusively in retro-style boxes. I needed a box of Fruit (Frute) Brute and I needed one now.

Last night, I bought a box of new "Frute" Brute at Target. As a kosher-observing vegetarian, I had no intention of eating the cereal and it's animal-derivative marshmallows. I wanted the box to display in my office at work, in coveted place alongside my Fruit Brute bobblehead figure. It would serve as a constant reminder of a simpler, stress-free time long in my past. As I was about to place the box in its position of honor, My friend and co-worker Kym (of Breaking Bad spoiler fame) swung by. I offered her the cereal to take home for her daughter Elle. Kym wrinkled her nose at first, explaining that she refers to obviously unhealthy, overly-sugared breakfast food as "vacation cereal," reserved for starting the day on brief trips to the shore or some other laid-back and carefree locale. However, she reconsidered and happily agreed to take the cereal for Elle. I ran my thumb under the box flap, breaking the factory seal. I slowly extracted the translucent polybag from the box, its colorful contents glowing harshly under the fluorescent lights.

"I'm sure Elle would like the box.," Kym stated, momentarily confused my by actions.

"Sorry," I replied, "The box is mine."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ADDENDUM

Elle, happily coming over to "The Dark Side"

Elle had a big bowl of Frute Brute for breakfast this morning. She even drank the sickeningly-sweet surplus milk, proclaiming "I LOVE THIS CEREAL!" She anxiously awaits breakfast tomorrow morning, when she will - no doubt - polish off the remainder of the bag.

I feel for you, Kym. Elle will be bouncing off the walls until 10 PM and then wake up at 4 AM, demanding her Frute Brute fix. This stuff is worse than heroin.