Cold Pizza, Warm Hotdogs and Marshmallows

Did you hear the heartwarming story of the food delivery driver who most likely saved the life of a woman she was delivering to?

Briefly, the customer was waiting outside for the delivery to come when she fell and hit her head. She had previously suffered a knee injury, which led to the fall.

She cut her head, and apparently it had bled quite a bit.

Enter the delivery driver, who had emergency medical technician training.

She estimated the woman had been lying there unconscious for 15 to 20 minutes.

Long story short, she revived the woman and dressed the wound. Now the driver is receiving accolades from all over the place, and for good reason.

I wish I could have had that driver last night.

Kim and I were out of town, our first stay in a hotel in more than probably 3 years that didn’t involve business.

First off, we couldn’t find a pizza place that would deliver. Everybody said they didn’t have enough workers.

I’m not sure where those 428,000 new jobs the US added in April are, but they sure aren’t at pizza places in Knoxville, Tenn.

We finally did find one, though, and the delivery came through a third-party delivery service, just like the one in the life-saving story.

It arrived 20 minutes late. It was cold.

When the service texted me to ask me to rate my experience, I gave them a 1. I immediately got a text back apologizing with a link for me to give more information.

The link doesn’t work.

That’s what I like to call the cherry on top.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not comparing my bad experience to a woman whose life got saved by a delivery driver who was apparently on time.

But my driver and I sure won’t be attending any award ceremonies together.

***

I don’t get kids these days.

I stay away from piling on to the younger generation too much, because I don’t want to derisively be referred to as a crotchety old “boomer.”

But I was at the grocery store the other day, and I saw something unbelievable.

It was a display of little candy bars, graham crackers and marshmallows.

I fondly remember roasting wieners and marshmallows on camping trips.

I associate it more with fall than spring, but that’s fine.

The most fun thing about this American tradition is taking a pocketknife into the woods and finding the perfect roasting stick.

The stick can’t be too dry, because it of course, would catch fire. It has to be the right diameter.

It can’t be too long or too short.

It has to be wood that won’t break.

This hunt could last several minutes, sometimes. And that made the hotdog taste more savory and the marshmallows seem more sweet and creamy.

It was a coming of age ritual.

It was an exercise in perseverance.

For some reason, I was drawn to the display. As I pushed the buggy closer, I saw something unusual.

It was a plastic bag containing a dozen roasting sticks.

What fun is that?

Why don’t we go on and roast the wieners and catch the marshmallows on fire at the factory so little Timmy can just pop them in the microwave for 30 seconds and be done with it?

We probably do. I’m afraid to look.