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John Boston | Kids Are Starving in Europe. And, in Santa Clarita…

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When the phrase “Memorable Meals” is bandied about, it conjures visions of epicurean delights, chow so scrumptious it makes one moan. Sometimes, you don’t even remember the food because of the emotional significance of the occasion. Maybe a Memorable Meal is hardwired to a wedding proposal, first date or anniversary. Perhaps a Hawaiian sunset and tropical breeze may be connected to the digestion process.

I had a wife once. Well. More than once. For her birthday, I moved our entire dining room from the ranch over to Hart Park and ordered a catered seven-course meal. With music. Not unlike Scooby-Doo, my spouse seemed — confused.


Winter break, my junior year at Hart, home of The Mighty Indians — and speaking of meals, may some school district suits choke — my best pal Phil and I motored up Coast Highway 1 to San Francisco. We had like 18 cents between us. Most of that went for gasoline for Phil’s VW bug with the American flag painted on the hood. For three days, we survived on a loaf of bread, Kool-Aid and pathogen-rich green bologna. Our first night in Baghdad-by-the-Bay? It snowed. For the first time since the 7th century. We slept in Phil’s sardine can in Candlestick Park’s parking lot during a blizzard.

Know what we had for breakfast?

Good guess.


Soon, all the hardships were forgotten. We motored to Fisherman’s Wharf and each ate boiled crab, lemon, butter, fresh baked hot French bread, brie and root beer. Peach ice cream for dessert. Hit the pitch pipe.........

© Santa Clarita Valley Signal

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