Ah, summer vacation back when I was a tweenager, back when tweens hadn’t been yet invented as a market niche. Well pretty much back in the dark ages entirely since this would have been 1971. Those were the days. Ah yes, black and white rabbit-ears TV and 45rpm singles. We weren’t a cutting edge family. But who cared – school was out, it was summer, and did I mention there was no school?
So I was in high spirits looking forward to escapades with the neighborhood kids despite being pretty much on the low-end of the neighborhood social totem-pole.
“Peeeeterrrrr!” I heard my mother calling. It must be dinner time. I hoped it was the day of the week when we got to have TV dinners. That was what frozen entrees used to be called. I guess because Mom had less chance of burning something while watching TV when just popping the tinfoil covered containers in the Hotpoint. If it was TV dinners, I would have salisbury steak.
Otherwise, who knew what delicacy might be in store. I just hoped it wasn’t fish night. That was stinky. But at least it meant we’d also have french fries. Yeah, they were still actually deep-fried from just-peeled potatoes in delicious trans-fats. Mom hadn’t succumbed to the frozen oven-ready crinkle cuts just yet. But lord help us, it might be shishle-beef night. Shishle-beef was not some esoteric eastern-european meat and potatoes dish. It was my mom dumping hamburger meat (ground beef was still years in the future you know) into a skillet, and ‘shishle-ing’ it around until cooked. Oh, she did through in salt and pepper I think. We hated it.
“Peeeeeterrrr!” the voice came again. I hit the pedals of my cool sparkly-handlebar bike hard and sprayed gravel behind me as I headed up the driveway.