Sugar Beet Special
A Bit of Beet Season Filler Material
I’m not usually one to rush my work. Before diving into a project, I prefer to analyze it from all angles. Sometimes, it takes me twenty minutes to get a zip tie started.
So, rather than spit out some trashy, half-assed works, I thought sharing one of my old favorites with you all would be fun.
But first, a quick harvest update.
I’ve been working on FTF #14 during beet piler delays and breakdowns, but the Argyle station has been operating like a semi-lubricated machine this year.
Considering the bizarre accidents across the valley this week, I’ll call that a blessing. So far, nobody at our site has tripped over cords or shattered any ankles, nor have any trucks crashed into the scale house.
Not all stations can say the same…I’m looking at you, Moorhead. Get it together down there.
Anyways, with minimal piler delays along with it being that harvest stage, where the piler crews develop a rhythm like Johnny and June and pump out the trucks.
It has gone so fast that I hardly have time to eat one of the scotcharoos that I might gank from driver Jaden’s lunch kit when he’s looking the other way.
Besides replacing a pair of bearings and a shaft (ope), the operation hums like a sewing machine. At nearly 60% complete, there won’t be a heck of a lot left come Monday.
In the meantime, I’ll do my best to get this week’s entire issue out to you by the end of the weekend.
Good luck to you all, and stay safe. It’s a jungle out there.
As the winner of C & M Ford’s “coolest cat” award for three years, Shawn Carrier often says, Keep er’ crankin’.
In the meantime, please enjoy a classic about when John and I visited the Thief River Falls Pizza Hut in January.
Nobody OutPizzas The Hut
“I’m pretty excited!” John exclaimed, happy as a lark as we shuffled our creaking, middle-aged joints across the icy parking lot.
The thermometer on the dash says it’s -12°F, but even in 2023, the finest GMC trucks don’t factor in the wind chill. They can’t tell you squat about what it actually feels like. The weather app on my phone tells me it feels like -33°F, confirming my theory that it’s too cold to do a damn thing outside.
For the past 80 minutes, John and I discussed where we should have dinner. It was our third trip to Thief River Falls in as many weeks, and we’d already hit the two hot spots in town, Fozzie’s and Las Ranita’s.
When cold like this, you try not to overthink too many things. It burns far too much energy. I’m not a big eater, and my skinny-fat body type doesn’t provide the required insulation to allow my mind to freewheel out of control with nonsensical whimsies.
If I did, I’d likely freeze to death in less time than it takes for Keanu Reeves to tell you the current time.
A dash of extra Monday enthusiasm reverberated through the cab when John pined, “I haven’t been to Pizza Hut in a while.”
Without much thought, “Huh, neither have I. That could be good,” escaped my talk hole.
It was a done deal. Like it or not, it was a decision John and I would have to live with for the rest of our lives.
My chauffeur dove the nose of the Sierra into the second roundabout, the truck as stupefied as myself, both of us wondering where John had been hiding this assertive driving style for the last 20 years. Typically, he’s the one sitting at the four-way stop sign, biting his nails as he waits for that one car coming out of Canada.
Not today. Today, the kid had pizza on his mind, and he was following his nose. My mind drifted as his knuckles whitened. The mighty GMC roared through town.
Appetite for the Old Days
My mind gravitates toward the nostalgic. Today was no exception. A replay of Pizza Hut visits from the past 35 years flickered across my internal display.
Well, now I should tell you a bit about my internal display.
You see kids? I have what doctors call a wee bit of an anxiety problem. When I encounter periods of worry, it’s like a television in my head operated by my subconscious. And that crazy bastard got a hold of my credit card, subscribing to every channel Dish Network offers, even the Spanish ones I can’t understand.
To tone this down, I reintroduce my subconscious to his less affluent side. After a 27-minute call with the Dish customer service people and swapping a few imaginary cables, we’re back to a 13-inch Zenith with a wobbly leg and a high-backed chair with dogs carved into the front of the armrests.
Three channels and no battery in the remote, so I have to get up if I want to watch something else.
Limiting the channel selection somehow tricks my brain into worrying about one damn thing at a time.
Caution. I’ve found myself stuck in the chair like the main character, Pink, from the classic Pink Floyd film, “The Wall.” This can have adverse effects.
If you find this the case, maybe it’s time to get outside and not watch so much television.
Tread lightly. Not many of my anxious coping skills are research-backed. I prefer to fling shit at the walls and see what sticks.
As John practices for the Indy 500, my Zenith locks in a signal.
I’m thinking about salad bars and Pac-Man.
Or was it Namco’s 1982 hit arcade game Pole Position? Our local Pizza Hut had both, if my memory serves.
I picture my childhood friend’s dad sprinkling table salt into his tall Miller Lite. Why, I will never understand. The point is that Pizza Hut used to have tap bevies, too.
In the early 90s, going to Pizza Hut was an experience. I could elaborate for days, but fortunately, we can spare ourselves that project because people have already done that here and here.
God Help us All
Gentleman and scholar that I am, I grabbed the door for John and followed him inside.
What. The. Fuck?
There were no chandeliers, no green carpet. The salad bar was gone, too.
In its place sat a somewhat industrial high-top table against a flat-screen television.
Anger seethed from the deepest parts of my loins. I wanted to hate this place and its very existence.
It looked like the inside of a Taco Bell.
When the waiter brought paper plates and forks to the table, I nearly lost my mind.
No, no. You can do this, I told myself. Give this place a chance. At the start of 2023, you promised yourself you would do the opposite of what you usually do.
Here’s your chance.
Calm down and order your pizza.
Deep breaths. The kid in the Carhartt vest did nothing to you.
He’s here to help.
And help, he did. The Wonderkind waiter was slinging Dews and water to our table with tactical precision. I don’t usually drink Mountain Dew; this was my first one in a decade. Immediately, I remembered why I had to refrain from drinking the stuff. It’s too delicious. Had I continued, obesity would have no doubt followed.
The Dew triggered another nostalgic flashback. The chandelier wasn’t there, but I could feel its presence. The spirits of the salad bar joined our table. Comfort washed over me. Right then, I knew this would be the best pizza I’d ever eaten.
I Was Not Wrong
As much as I despised the copycat Chipotle decor that makes you feel like you’re dining in the cafeteria at the Texas State Penitentiary, I fell in love with the food.
Partway through the meal, John stunned the sparse crowd by dropping to one knee and proposing to his half of the pizza.
I couldn’t blame him. I’d have done the same if I had been thinking straight, but I wasn’t. My eyes rolled back in my head, and I pert-near blacked out. The cholesterol spike interrupted my decision-making channels.
Every pizza and every breadstick I’d eaten before seemed like such a disappointment. I never want to eat another because it won’t compare.
Folks, let me tell you something. I have reached the summit of the pizza world, and the view is breathtaking.
Move over, New York. Move over, Chicago.
Thief River Falls is the new Pizza Capital of America, and ol’ John Boy couldn’t be more pleased.
Enjoy the weekend, folks. Ya’ll come back now…hear?