It's the Great Cornish Game Hen, Began Anna

*The names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved in the events mentioned.

                Thanksgiving is a special time in my life. It was the only time once a year, that we as a family got to sit at the dining room table my mother had saved up for 6 years to buy. We pulled out the clunky blue and grayish colored dinnerware that we only used once a year, and the giant dark-blue gothic glasses to drink out of that we only used once a year, and my Great-Aunt Winda’s silverware set that we were afraid to eat off of because it had weird tarnish stains all over it. Dad would place the frozen turkey into the tub of mine and my sister’s bathroom to thaw. It would float around, bobbing back and forth while our weiner dog, Brownie, assessed how to best acquire the massive, floating bird for the morning. He only succeeded once.

                We always ate the same thing, every year. The same drinks, the same meal, the same desserts. That’s how my family was. We remembered things by smells and tastes. We remembered things because of the food.

                Well, this story isn’t memorable because of the food (well partially so), but it’s more memorable because of how it went down. The following events really happened. Some of it might have been exaggerated, but you won’t know which was and which wasn’t. So, in other words, it’s a sorta-true story, but most of it actually happened. It’s just told through my point of view.

                As we all know, in seminary, money is tight. Really tight. I mean Fred Mertz tight. (If you don’t know who he is, shame on you. Look it up.) Not only was my first semester of seminary tight on money, but I also didn’t have a car and I had to learn how to walk in snow. (You use muscles you didn’t know existed! Seriously!) Since I didn’t have a car to get home to the glorious state of Georgia to see the fall colors and to eat my mother’s pie and watch the floating turkey and sit at the dining room table, I had to make alternate plans for my first Thanksgiving as a seminarian. There is a community meal that many students attend, but I was lucky enough to have been invited by a friend, we’ll call her Began Anna (you don’t say it like “began” as in the beginning of something, but more like you would say “bacon”).  Began Anna and I had become great friends that first semester.  We became close, and often times we mistaken for sisters on the L.

                Began Anna knew of my sadness in not being able to go home to Georgia so she invited me to her family home in Albert Lea, Minnesota for a home-cooked Thanksgiving with her parents. I was delighted. Why not? I got dog sitters for the week and we planned out our mega-adventure. The week of Thanksgiving came faster than we anticipated, and we piled in her chariot of a car. I don’t think the trunk opened, but we got our things into the back seat of the car and made out for the north on a Monday morning.

                We had about a 6 hour car ride ahead of us, so we decided to make the best of it. We talked about classes, what our Christmas plans were, churches we visited, and just general merriment. Now, what happened next, some might call a movement of the Holy Spirit, but the rest of us would call it just plain stupidity. About 2 and a ½ hours into the drive, Began Anna and I found ourselves driving into an Arby’s parking lot. We were among Cracker Barrels, Wendy’s, Burger King, McDonalds, and a few other food places. But somehow we were at Arby’s. What led to this is still a file in the Unsolved Mysteries pile that even Robert Stack wouldn’t know what to do with. (Again, if you don’t know who this is, you make bunnies cry. Look it up.) Either way, we found ourselves walking into the Arby’s. It was a gross and grey day outside, and it was also cold. So we walked inside all bundled up, not to the Cracker Barrel where we could sit by the fire and warm ourselves with a hot meal cooked on a griddle, but into an Arby’s. Began Anna ordered mozzarella sticks and a diet coke. I ordered fries, a dr. pepper, and some sort of roast beef sandwich.

First off, why did I buy a roast beef sandwich?! It’s sliced meat. And as is common knowledge (or should be), I do not eat sliced meat. It’s gross. It’s not natural. Second, it was smothered in the Arby’s sauce, which I personally find repulsive. Third, it was also smothered in a cheese-like-sauce that one can only describe as something that one should only ever eat at a county fair in Iowa with stale chips and only after several Milwaukie’s Best. I do not remember being sick or being possessed (but that could be the case, I suppose), but I ate. I ate about half of the sandwich, most of my fries and a few sips of my drink before I began to wonder what in the h-e-double hockey sticks I was doing.

Began Anna and I threw away most of our food upon remembering our disgust of the fast food, except for the drinks after discussing the bearded man sitting a few tables over from us. I don’t remember why we talked about him, but I am sure that it was something entertaining. 

We returned to our golden chariot (actually it was white), and we began to continue to drive north. About 20 minutes later, Arby’s came back to visit. Began Anna and I began to feel sick. Now for those of you who don’t know, anytime Began Anna isn’t feeling good, she lets you know it. So I was immediately made aware of the discomfort in her bowels that matched mine. With moaning and tears we made our way to the first gas station we could find. It was a nice, clean and spacious traveler’s stop. Anyone would find it a fine place to rest and put gas in their car. We pulled in and made our way to the bathroom.

After a few minutes of agony, I felt much better, so I proceeded to wash my hands and exit the bathroom. Began Anna on the other hand wasn’t doing as well. It appears the mozzarella sticks were not sitting well with her. Which makes sense, I mean, its fried cheese. And since it came from Arby’s, it was probably fried cheese-like substance that was on my sandwich. She should have had a Milwaukie’s Best before-hand. I walked out into the store and I was astonished that they would sell liquor in a truck stop. Talk about bad ideas! I mean, really. Let’s just give people handheld little bottles of liquor to drink as they drive down the road. Someone’s a genius.

While I was reveling the in emotional turmoil of discovering liquor in a gas station, Began Anna was not doing as well back in the bathroom. After about 5 minutes, I could not find my pint-sized friend among the isles, so I went back into the bathroom to see if she needed help. She did.

Imagine a small animal waking up from anesthesia after surgery. It still has tubes in its mouth and its groggy and scared. Well that’s the equivalent of poor Began Anna’s suffering in that handicapped bathroom stall on that cold November day.  She cried out to me, “It hurts. Make it stop.”

Just then a middle-aged woman walked out of her bathroom stall to glance at me as if to say “go take care of your dying child in there.” That’s not what she said, but she might have been thinking it. “Please make it stop,” the cries came from the stall. “I wish I could help,” was the best I could do. “Just keep trying to relax.” I waited by the sinks in the bathroom for a few minutes as poor Began Anna moaned and sweated through her agony.

“Did you know that they sell liquor in here?” I asked Began Anna.

“Well, duh. It’s a store; of course they sell that here. Have you never seen that?” Began Anna replied.

“No. You can only get liquor from a package store back home.”

“What’s a package store?” Began Anna asked.

“Like a liquor store, only called a package store because you drink out of the bottle in a brown paper bag.” I answered.

“I doubt it’s because of that.” Began Anna replied.

“Well, do you have any better suggestions?” I asked.

“No. But I wish my bum would stop hurting."

“Do you want me to get you some thing?” I asked.

“Like what?” Began Anna asked.

“You know, like maybe something like some Imodium AD.”

“Ok. Will that stop the hurting?”

“I don’t know but it might help.” I suggested.

“Ok.”

So I went to comb the shelves for some Imodium AD tablets. None. What kind of store was this?! So I had to return to Began Anna with sad news. “They don’t have any. What do you want me to do?”

“I think I’ll be okay for a while.” Just then I heard the toilet flush and Began Anna emerged from the bathroom tired, worn out and still in pain. She washed her hands and we were back into the car. Until the next gas station… Stay tuned for next week’s installment of It’s the Great Cornish Game Hen, Began Anna.