Food was not the reason any of us came here. I myself, came here at the age of 13 to find a life that was easier to live than with my waring family. Here I was in my sophomore year at St. Vincent’s Minor Seminary in Montebello, California and though the refuge and the people were great, the food was less so. The cooks were all nuns from Mexico with service in mind. None could read English and perhaps that explains the strange flavors presented to us.
We were not allowed to talk at meals. After prayers, the food was served by fellow students who had that as their job assignment. Another student would read from Butler’s Lives of the Saints. These were often gory tales of their torture by heathens and infidels while they defended their faith to their inevitably bloody end. The readings did not add flavor to the food.
As we remained silent we would signal our need for seasonings and pitchers of liquid with hand signs to each other as we perused the daily fare. The liquid was most likely Kool-Aid, which we referred to as Bug Juice. The meat would be either fried chicken or liver. We called the fried chicken leprosy legs and as we poked the deep-fried poultry, pools of oil would shoot across the table at one of our aggrieved classmates, which though entertaining, was hardly appetizing. The liver was cooked like the bottom of a shoe and only a half inch of catsup on top allowed the food to go down, as it must. Plates had to be cleaned. That was a rule.
Eventually, I and a junior were assigned kitchen cleanup. We were responsible to bus the tables, scrape the plates and wash the dishes. This meant we had access to the kitchen and time to talk. We both felt the canned beets we were being served were worse than the chicken or liver and there was no credible condiment to cover the rancid taste. And so we decided, foolishly, that it would be a service to our classmates to dispose of the remaining 3 cases of beets in the pantry and so we devised a plan to sneak into the kitchen at night, steal the offending cases of beets and bury them in the middle of the football field, and that is exactly what we did. We were momentarily filled with joy at the thought of never having to eat canned beats again.
,
Brother Bernard Stein, however, was used to the idiotic pranks of young seminarians and easily uncovered our beet burial grounds. The punishment for said crime was clear and direct. Every day for more than a year the two beet criminals were forced to eat a rather large bowl of the offending tubers until every last drop of the three cases of tinned beets was digested.
As a result of this traumatic experience, it has become a firm policy of mine to never again eat this miserable food.
— DanielSouthGate
We were not allowed to talk at meals. After prayers, the food was served by fellow students who had that as their job assignment. Another student would read from Butler’s Lives of the Saints. These were often gory tales of their torture by heathens and infidels while they defended their faith to their inevitably bloody end. The readings did not add flavor to the food.
As we remained silent we would signal our need for seasonings and pitchers of liquid with hand signs to each other as we perused the daily fare. The liquid was most likely Kool-Aid, which we referred to as Bug Juice. The meat would be either fried chicken or liver. We called the fried chicken leprosy legs and as we poked the deep-fried poultry, pools of oil would shoot across the table at one of our aggrieved classmates, which though entertaining, was hardly appetizing. The liver was cooked like the bottom of a shoe and only a half inch of catsup on top allowed the food to go down, as it must. Plates had to be cleaned. That was a rule.
Eventually, I and a junior were assigned kitchen cleanup. We were responsible to bus the tables, scrape the plates and wash the dishes. This meant we had access to the kitchen and time to talk. We both felt the canned beets we were being served were worse than the chicken or liver and there was no credible condiment to cover the rancid taste. And so we decided, foolishly, that it would be a service to our classmates to dispose of the remaining 3 cases of beets in the pantry and so we devised a plan to sneak into the kitchen at night, steal the offending cases of beets and bury them in the middle of the football field, and that is exactly what we did. We were momentarily filled with joy at the thought of never having to eat canned beats again.
,
Brother Bernard Stein, however, was used to the idiotic pranks of young seminarians and easily uncovered our beet burial grounds. The punishment for said crime was clear and direct. Every day for more than a year the two beet criminals were forced to eat a rather large bowl of the offending tubers until every last drop of the three cases of tinned beets was digested.
As a result of this traumatic experience, it has become a firm policy of mine to never again eat this miserable food.
— DanielSouthGate
I am sorry to hear about this. It is probably of no use to tell you that FRESH beets are fantastic, and pickled beets are wonderful, too. But never mind. The experience you are describing, of being in the seminary-- the silent meals-- the lives of the saints (whose gruesome stories I also was encouraged to read in my younger days)-- this is the stuff of parody. I do like the way you stuck to the tale-- it was about food-- very focused and, well, amusing. Hope you don't mind that it was amusing! (Macoff)
ReplyDeleteI do not judge good people for liking beets. I am surrounded by their advocates, but I will enjoy beet resistance to the end of my days. It took a long time for me to eat chicken after these years, the memory of leprosy legs and squirting oil needed time to heal. There is plenty to laugh at from these years. Every time I reunite with old classmates, the beet story comes back to life. I'd be offended if you weren't amused. Thanks
DeleteTho there are ways that beets are good, and they are nutritious, I've had to give them up. I sat and ate beet chips one night ... absentmindedly. Next morning I peed red and since I had fallen down fairly recently, I thought maybe I really had hurt something. Off to the ER. That was an expensive forgetfulness and I do not want to repeat it. I eschew beets now. - - less unpleasant than your story by a loooooong shot, tho!!! :P
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