Yesterday, my daughter showed me a meme. A girl with a shocked look on her face and the text: me at five when my mom told me she doesn’t have a favorite color. As my other daughter says: real.
I’ve always thought that having favorites of things is a really funny topic of conversation. I remember being asked often through years of school about what my favorite things were. I suspect that the teachers were trying to connect to students, learn about their preferences at least and perhaps give them a little space to bring a bit of themselves into the classroom. At least, many years later, that was part of my motivation in asking these sorts of questions as a teacher in my own classroom. It’s strange that I didn’t remember all that was involved in answering seemingly simple questions.
As a student, I remember that there were many dynamics involved in answering such questions in front of the whole class, especially if everyone was expected to answer in turn. If I repeat the same answer (blue was always popular as a favorite color), would those who gave the same reply ahead of me accuse me of “stealing” their preference? If I chose something different, would I be teased (brown, yellow, green, and pink being the colors of poop, pee, vomit/boogers, and girls respectively)? If I stepped too far out of the box (periwinkle? mauve? chartreuse) would I isolate myself?
And perhaps answering a “favorite” question has become no less fraught in adulthood. Certainly, I cannot think of one favorite restaurant to answer this daily prompt. I have enjoyed and do enjoy a number of different places.
So I guess that what I’ll answer is a spot that I miss going: Matt’s Bar in Minneapolis. When we lived there, we’d eat there once or twice a month even though the line for a table was often out the door even in frigid Minnesota winters. Like everyone else, we went there for the Jucy Lucy (yes, that is how it’s spelled), which is a burger with the cheese in the middle, meaning it was melty and molten hot. I had mine with pickles and both raw and fried onions and we’d get a basket of fries for the table. The ritual was to dig out a well-done fry and use it to poke holes in the burger to make it cool down faster. They always had decent beer on tap and the regular waitress always recognized us as regular neighbors. She sometimes even comped us the fries or a drink. It’s not the sort of place that can be recreated elsewhere. I’m pretty sure most of the flavor in the burgers comes from the decades-old well seasoned grill. I don’t think I could ever pick a favorite restaurant but Matt’s certainly ranks up there as a spot that holds a lot of my favorite memories.
Rhena Writes 