Sorting through old myths, one cheeseburger at a time.
There’s a Swedish television show where three cheerful Scandinavians arrive at cluttered American homes and gently remind people of an inconvenient truth.
When you die, your relatives will either fight over your stuff, donate it to Goodwill, or haul it to the dumpster.
The Swedes call it “death cleaning.” Americans call it “my garage.”
I’ve been doing my own version lately. A few boxes at a time. Not because I’m planning an imminent departure from the planet, but because I’ve reached the age where I open a box and wonder why I thought it was important enough to move across three states.
This week’s excavation uncovered two sets of toys I once used as visual aids during gender-bias trainings when I worked in domestic violence prevention.
I’d pull out old Star Wars figures and Barbie dolls to make the point that popular culture starts socializing children early. Boys become dominant. Girls become decorative. By adulthood, everybody needs therapy.
The original 1977 Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker figures looked like underfed exchange students. Skinny. Plain. Awkward.
Over the years, both evolved into action heroes with toned abs and revealing wardrobes.
Ken especially transformed from suburban boyfriend into a plastic MMA fighter. Barbie’s proportions stayed pretty much the same, emphasizing that thin is better than otherwise.
The toys worked well in trainings because every participant understood the point. You could physically see cultural expectations hardening in molded plastic.
Eventually, my teaching props became clutter.
So I sold the Star Wars collection to a collector in Berthoud. After an acupuncture appointment in Longmont, I drove over to make the delivery. One more box removed from the archive of my former lives.
Of course, no trip to Berthoud is complete without stopping at the A&W Restaurant.
The drive-in feels like a surviving artifact from “American Graffiti.” I pulled in, pushed a button and ordered through a two-way speaker, The curbhop brought out a tray that hooked onto the partially rolled-down car window.
Baby Boomers somehow managed to eat entire meals in their cars without permanently staining the upholstery, although now that I think about it, my old Ford Falcon may have always smelled faintly of french fries.
I ordered the Double Papa Burger combo: fries and a large root beer float, another stop on my ongoing cheeseburger field research project.
The Papa Burger today is wetter than I remember. Not worse. Just overcommitted to condiments.
The burger arrived dripping special sauce and sliced tomato fluid. I inhaled the monster with no evidence of chewing, which may explain indulgent health trends.
Compared to the other burgers I’ve sampled over the past few months, the Papa Burger holds up well.
There’s no brioche bun or truffle aioli. It’s a big, messy American cheeseburger served at a drive-in where you’re expected to eat like napkins are optional.
The afternoon felt connected in a strange way.
I sold toys that represented old ideas about masculinity and femininity. Then I celebrated by eating a burger large enough to challenge modern cardiology.
America remains a land of contradictions.
The trip would have been perfect if the kids meal had come with a Mandalorian toy.
Of course, that’s the domain of Burger King.
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