 Hold the computer, my breakfast is broken By Glen Willard |
Maybe this piece should be subtitled, "Don't mess with me 'fore breakfast", or even "Don't get between me and my grits". Except that latter title really wouldn't work very well here in Ukraine. There is a lamentable absence of grit trees in the country due to the somewhat northerly latitude (Take that, you yamdankees!).
Anyway, about an hour ago I went to have breakfast at my favorite Irish pub. This (eating breakfast that is) is a thing I've started doing lately. Doctor's orders. Doc Zemskov seems to think I should eat more regularly. And he suggests a minimum of three meals a day, perhaps even four.
Now, as an adult I've seldom eaten breakfast as a regular habit. Usually I've been a lunch and supper man. Breakfast generally has meant a cup of coffee at my desk. Here in Ukraine, it had become more just morning coffee, lunch and a late night snack or bowl of soup.
But I've always enjoyed breakfast. Growing up it was a requirement. As a child, it may have mostly been a bowl of cereal and some milk or juice. Later, a full breakfast with the eggs, bacon or sausage, toast or biscuits (no, not those English cookie things, but real American biscuits; usually cooked with self-rising flour, huge and fluffy and maybe, usually at a relatives though, topped with sawmill or red-eye gravy) and always, always grits.
I realize I'm digressing from my Irish pub story. Maybe this piece is about grits. Or breakfast?
But speaking of grits. A friend just got back from Atlanta and he brought me some. Now they were instant grits (as opposed to 5-minute grits or the real thing). Actually five-minute grits and instant grits are the real thing these days. Hardly anyone takes the time to cook grits the old fashioned way. It's too time-consuming; Five-minute and instant taste just the same and, frankly, there is much less likelihood of coming up with lumpy grits. It's damn hard to cure lumpy grits. You really have to start over. Better to go to the grocery and buy five-minute or instant at that point. Lumpy grits are bad grits.
And the grits my friend brought me were great. And a real treat. And I learned something. At least, I don't remember seeing it before. Quaker Oats is now making them and putting them in individual serving packets. And some packets are even individual ones filled with cheese grits and some with bacon bits already in them. Grits, easier than ever. And microwavable - but I wouldn't do that.
And more on breakfast. While not eating breakfast every morning faded from habit in adulthood, eating breakfast regularly did not. Usually eaten on weekends. Sleep a little late, wake up and enjoy a big, leisurely breakfast. These always came with a big slice of ham, frequently country cured and fried. Also, maybe a special sausage and for sure some good biscuits and gravy. And, of course, grits.
So I really, really enjoy my breakfast when I have time. And, as my doctor wants it, this has left me guilt-free to enjoy breakfast everyday now.
Back to this morning and a formerly favorite Irish pub.
The place advertises itself as being open at 8:00 am. At precisely 8:05 am I presented myself. I've eaten breakfast there regularly of late, but generally arrive a little later.
"Hi," I greeted the young waitress as I entered. "Got breakfast ready?" (Note: Seldom is one cheerfully greeted first by a Ukrainian server. This is not a complaint. I find them courteous and pleasant, but generally I speak first. And this particular girl I know to be particularly friendly, courteous and pleasant.)
"You can have coffee now, and breakfast soon" wouldn't be a direct quote but it's close enough to her reply.
What's the problem? I ask casually. Then, "How soon?"
"Maybe a few minutes ...10 or so. The computer's not working," she informs.
"The computer?" I say (At this point I'm confused. And I am anxious for breakfast.). "What's the computer have to do with breakfast?"
"We can't start until the computer's working."
"Why is it not working?" I said before the absurdity had set in.
"Well, it'll be working soon."
I ask, quickly and in succession something like ...
"Is anyone in the kitchen?" "Is there food?" "I mean eggs, sausage..." "Is the stove working?"
Her answers to the onslaught were in the affirmative.
Me: "So, what's the problem?"
She: "The computer isn't working."
Me (incredulously). "But will it be working soon?"
Her response and her now nervousness made me feel we might have a management problem. So I ask if a manager was around. Wrong question. I should have said supervisor, I knew "the manager" was off for a 10-day visit to Ireland. I learned the supervisor was out for the moment on an errand of some sort. I thought, maybe, she hadn't opened the computer access at the time of my arrival.
Anyway, the young lady apologized. In this manner, "It's not my fault." I replied as softly as I could, "I know that." At this point I was feeling sorry for her. She's a smart young lady and this was to her beyond her control. And in a way it wasn't her fault. She was without realizing it offering an excuse. Granted, it was management through her that was offering the excuse.
Excuses versus reasons. For me an excuse is a sorry attempt at exculpation unaccompanied by a reason. What is foreseeable is usually within control. When something becomes uncontrollable, then there may be reason for an event not to occur or to occur differently. I'll leave it to lawyers to contest blame, fault and so forth as to what is a foreseeable or unforeseeable consequence of an action taken or not.
Excuses are bad. Reasons have to be accepted. If I'm to be at work at 9:00 a.m. and I'm not, and because of this a result occurs (which usually only can be bad) do I have only an excuse (bad) or do I have a reason to offer (acceptable).
My car ran out of gas. The traffic was extraordinarily bad. The minibus broke down. My child was sick. All, without more ... just excuses. It is my fault and no one else's. These are controllable events, generally foreseeable and avoidable.
A passenger plane crashed into the block next to me and the police and fire personnel ringed off traffic. My car was hit by another vehicle and the police are still here. The stove caught fire at breakfast ... and similar, if true ... acceptable reasons. Unforeseeable occurrences.
Anyway back the Irish pub and breakfast.
I offered to cook my own breakfast. This wasn't of course accepted and was partially offered in jest, and partly in mockery I'm afraid. But I once did just that at a newly opened Holiday Inn on a resort island off the coast of South Carolina. The drawbridge to the island had problems and had been temporarily shut down. The problems were of an emergency nature and unforeseeable. No one would have expected the kitchen help to foresee to arrange for a boat trip. The breakfast my co-worker, Al, and I fixed for the six of us turned out fine and the management was happy to oblige. (Oh, we had grits too.)
My wife offered that maybe now that the Irish bar had a computerized system, they couldn't for tax purposes begin full sales operations until they were working. I don't think so.
My recollection: Only a few years ago many places here in Ukraine were still using the abacus to tote up orders and a simple box for receipts and change. The Irish bar only got the computers this year. I think the cash registers themselves still open sans computer.
Anyway, why couldn't my sale have been rung up later, when the computer was working?
I wanted breakfast. I left for another place.
At approximately 8:10 a.m., on my way out the door, I greeted the cashier as she approached the entrance.
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Read also previous issue' articles:
What it Was, Was Football
An American in Perish
The Baseball Way to Pleasure and Wisdom
What a Fine Mess
At My Table
The King is Gone- and So are You
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