D ressed in their best on Sunday mornings, most Catholic teenagers of my generation went to church; I went to Wendy’s.
As a child, if I was too sick to go to church on Sunday, I had to make it up by attending mass during the week. If my brother and I fought, my mother dragged us to weekday services. “You must not be close enough to God if you’re acting like that,” she’d say. And though I weighed in excess of 175 pounds my freshman year in high school, I was dying to make the cheerleading squad. So my mother suggested I go to church to say a novena (9 consecutive days of attending church to make a specific plea to God through prayer). Though I had never liked church and I was the furthest thing from a morning person, I was desperate. Not having had the foresight to consider that even if I had made the squad, I wouldn’t have fit into the uniform, I woke up an hour-and-a-half earlier than usual (the sun wasn’t even up) to attend mass before school for 9 very long and tiring days. When I didn’t land a spot on the squad, I was mad at my mom; I officially hated church; and I was convinced that God had it in for me.
Soon thereafter, my brother, Brent, my little sister, Leslie, and I started walking “to church.” Our scheme was simple: We would figure out a subtle way to confirm that our parents were going to attend the noon service, and then we would announce our plan to “attend” the 10:30 one. We’d arrive on the church steps just in time for us to send Leslie inside to listen to the sermon and pick up a church bulletin (the evidence required to satisfy our parents). She’d then skip out on the rest of the service and rejoin us for our weekly jaunt to Wendy’s, which happened to be conveniently located just behind Sacred Heart Church. Leslie would relay the brief overview of the sermon and identify the priest as I religiously ate my sacred Frosty and french fries.
Of course, my devotion to fast food wasn’t limited to Wendy’s alone. Because my dad traveled on business a few days a week, my family enjoyed fast food nights regularly. Though I loved my dad, I remember looking forward to his trips, because that meant there would be a fast food menu in my immediate future. And speaking of memories, I’ll never forget the first time my mother drove her new Mercedes convertible through the McDonald’s drive-thru. Before then, we didn’t have a lot of money, so I remember her giggling with a childlike spirit, as if she was getting away with something. She thought that because she could afford a Mercedes, she should no longer be buying 99-cent cheeseburgers.
Heck, fast food was such a part of my childhood that the only picture that exists of all my grandmother’s grandchildren is in front of a statue of Ronald McDonald. All eight of us still have a copy of the photo, as do our mothers. My cousins all want to return and retake the same picture, now 27 years later. I’m torn.
By my junior year in high school, I was officially a fast food junkie who needed a daily fix. Lucky for me, juniors and seniors were allowed to leave during our half-hour lunch period, so we’d pile into the cars of anyone old enough to drive (I was only 15) and rush to McDonald’s, Burger King, or Wendy’s to avoid the soggy pizza and french fries our cafeteria offered.
Shortly thereafter, however, my love affair with fast food came to a screeching halt. I was attending a precollege summer theater program at Carnegie Mellon University, when I experienced my first real crush. His name was Matt, and his feathered hair and gorgeous smile melted me. It seemed that he had a crush on my roommate and best friend—a perfect-looking, thin girl named Audrey. She swore she wasn’t interested. I believed her . . . until the night the three of us went to McDonald’s after a James Taylor concert. I knew my affection was one-sided when Matt reached across the table and started hand-feeding his french fries to her. Horrified, I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to distract myself by eating more than usual that night. When I looked up and saw that they were kissing, I was ill. I don’t think I said another word all evening.
When I woke up the next morning, I still felt sick. I rolled over and saw Audrey lying there, looking perfect as always in her skimpy little lace teddy. I was convinced that Matt would have liked me if I weren’t so fat, and I resolved to lose weight. I went cold turkey off fast food, and it didn’t hurt that the mere mention of McDonald’s continued to make my heart ache for years. I have not touched fast food since (well, until the making of this book, that is).
I must admit that I was a little worried about the prospect of losing weight. After all, when I was supposed to be going to church and creating merit with God, I was sneaking off for fast food. What were the chances (by this point, I was fully plagued with Catholic guilt) that God was suddenly going to award me my wish to be thin, when I still didn’t understand why I wasn’t granted my wish to be on the cheerleading squad? But much to my surprise, by simply eliminating fast food from my diet, I lost more than 25 pounds.
After a few years and a couple more crushes, I was able to throw away the photos of Matt and Audrey. And I started craving hamburgers, french fries, and the Burger King Chicken Parmesan Sandwich I had always loved, but I was determined not to give in to my cravings. Clearly having an inherent talent for cooking (the incredibly gifted Italian grandmother mentoring me didn’t hurt), I soon realized that I could re-create my favorites at home with a fraction of the fat. In fact, I was so successful in doing this that I would swear on a Bible (still plagued with Catholic guilt) that I have truly not since craved actual fast food, which, in part, enabled me to lose an additional 25 pounds. I do still crave (and indulge in) chocolate and my made-over fast food counterparts, but I have not even considered walking through the doors to visit Ronald, Wendy, or Jack for a meal since that heart-wrenching night in 1988. It occurred to me while revisiting chain after chain to collect the fast food favorites necessary to create this book that I have never driven through a drive-thru. That’s right, never. Never ever. I wasn’t old enough to drive when I swore off fast food. And I hadn’t been back since.
I hope this book brings you the comfort, peace, and health (and even greater popularity!) the food has brought me.