Waiting for the Delivery Truck

My kids like to reminisce about their childhood. I guess they come by it naturally. One of my sons who has an ongoing romance with food, fondly recalled the days when the Charles Chip man come to our door bearing huge tins of potato chips and pretzels. Eyes lit up, I recall, when I purchased the deliciously crisp chips but were less brilliant when I chose the pretzels. In those days, nutrition facts were not listed on the can so we didn't know (nor did we want to know) how many calories and fat we were ingesting.

These days, not a single delivery man rings my doorbell, but back in the 50's and 60's, all kinds of vendors routinely called on us. In addition to the milkman and the fruit and vegetable guy, there was the fellow who brought huge amounts of cut up meat, each portion neatly wrapped and marked with the contents. These sides of beef lasted an average family anywhere from six months to a year. Today, the way people avoid eating meat, the same amount would undoubtedly be around for five years.

When I was young, a truck filled with challah breads would drive into our neighborhood each Friday. Max, the driver had plenty of business in our mostly Jewish neighborhood for what caring Jewish housewife didn't want a fresh challah for her family's Shabbat table? We were no exception. Each week, Bubbie would stand around his truck for a time talking to Max and the neighbors before she bought a golden brown loaf. And each week at our dinner table, she would utter the same words. It looks nice but it tastes like gasoline. Next week, we'll buy at the bakery. But of course, next week she waited for Max to come by in his noisy, smelly truck and of course, we waited for Bubbie to say that the bread tasted like gasoline.


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