Who needs the McRib when you have a rack like this?
Who needs the McRib when you have a rack like this?
by jabzkillem
7 Comments
jabzkillem
Extra meaty babyback ribs from Fareway. They tasted great and my neighborhood smelled amazing!
irvingstreet
Looks great! Can I still have the McRib too, though?
IGK123
Nice rack
tacohands_sad
Still won’t compare to my mcribs. I make them from blended up hotdogs
Middle_of_theroadguy
I’m on my way!
PhillyChef3696
Nice rack. Would def need some wet-naps with that one.
No_Strength_6455
The McRib made me who I am today; more than any other form of media, more than film or TV, more than traditional literature, more than fine art. The McRib contributed to developing more of my personality, outlook and perspective than anything else (with the exception of my parents). I can honestly declare the barbecue-flavored pork product sandwich saved my life, and if it weren’t for it, I would not be here today.
That sounds cheesy, I know, so let me backtrack:
The middle class Westchester County, New York community where I was raised (coincidentally, one town over from where the McDonald’s HQ is located) was 95% caucasian and just under 3% hispanic or latino. Even though I was surrounded by second generation Italian immigrants (my great grandparents immigrated at the turn of the century), I felt strange and/or awkward for a lot of reasons. Being Puerto Rican was certainly somewhere on that list. Also on that list were my taste for theatre, art, and reading — all things I would soon be bullied for — in addition to my being overweight, having copious amounts of dandruff (which was totally just 90’s hair spray!) and my complete lack of physical prowess (I couldn’t catch a baseball if my life depended on it).
I remember when the bullying started: I was in the fourth grade, and one of my best friends turned to me at lunch and started laughing because of the way I looked and acted. The stigma of being strange and uncannily different from my peers continued through high school where I was pelted with gum right out of people’s mouths while other students spit at me through straws in front of teachers who either turned a blind eye or directly participated in my torment by laughing at me while it happened (all this in just first period Biology class). A girl I’d never spoken to before told me that if I died or killed myself, she would laugh.
There were in fact many days I thought of ending my life. I thought of myself as some sort of monster for being overweight. My parents are truly my best friends now and could not have loved me more to this day or growing up, but we weren’t always a great match when I was younger. My father, a shrewd, fair, and powerful NYPD detective, and my pragmatic and practical mother, an accountant, didn’t have coping techniques (through absolutely no fault of their own) for dealing with a social pariah interested in acting and art; not sports, like my father, who played minor league baseball and was an All-American basketball player, something that, in addition to being pushed and punched in the halls of school between classes, caused me a great deal of shame. So I hid the bullying I was going through at school from my parents. I grew up depressed, anxious and honestly, not wanting to live very long. To me, a step outside of my bedroom in my parents’ house was an opportunity to be ridiculed, physically abused or torn down for the betterment of others’ self esteem. The only way to ensure my safety was to never leave. Unfortunately, that’s what I did for too long. The reality is that I wanted to end my life.
Enter the McRib.
The first sandwich I picked up was so tasty, slathered in tangy barbecue sauce, slivered onions and tart pickles all on a hoagie style bun. Though I was often confused by the McRib’s sophistication, I was quickly entranced by McDonald’s idea that restructured pork patty, barbecue sauce, onions, and pickles served on a 5 1⁄2 inches (14 cm) roll was up there with any sandwich I knew. Sadly, there haven’t been any Puerto Rican/Italian sandwiches for me to connect with, but I was still enamored.
I didn’t understand at the time, but now I realize what I was doing: I was learning. I was learning flavour signatures that head of Marketing for McDonald’s, Chris Claremont, had the employees gently craft. I was learning about cultures and people that I had been ordering from behind the counter. I was learning that a sandwich could be different and hated, yet maybe they had something special. At a time when I didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere, when I didn’t feel like I had a family or community, I had McDonald’s, and they were my family. It wasn’t just an escape from anxiety and terror at school, but a way to focus on being a better person, despite what people said about me and how they treated me. There were communities that became families like McDonald’s and accepted each other and their faults and physical and racial differences and learned to love one another. That was how I learned how to treat a romantic partner the right way. That was where I learned how to be a better human being. That was where I learned to accept myself.
7 Comments
Extra meaty babyback ribs from Fareway. They tasted great and my neighborhood smelled amazing!
Looks great! Can I still have the McRib too, though?
Nice rack
Still won’t compare to my mcribs. I make them from blended up hotdogs
I’m on my way!
Nice rack. Would def need some wet-naps with that one.
The McRib made me who I am today; more than any other form of media, more than film or TV, more than traditional literature, more than fine art. The McRib contributed to developing more of my personality, outlook and perspective than anything else (with the exception of my parents). I can honestly declare the barbecue-flavored pork product sandwich saved my life, and if it weren’t for it, I would not be here today.
That sounds cheesy, I know, so let me backtrack:
The middle class Westchester County, New York community where I was raised (coincidentally, one town over from where the McDonald’s HQ is located) was 95% caucasian and just under 3% hispanic or latino. Even though I was surrounded by second generation Italian immigrants (my great grandparents immigrated at the turn of the century), I felt strange and/or awkward for a lot of reasons. Being Puerto Rican was certainly somewhere on that list. Also on that list were my taste for theatre, art, and reading — all things I would soon be bullied for — in addition to my being overweight, having copious amounts of dandruff (which was totally just 90’s hair spray!) and my complete lack of physical prowess (I couldn’t catch a baseball if my life depended on it).
I remember when the bullying started: I was in the fourth grade, and one of my best friends turned to me at lunch and started laughing because of the way I looked and acted. The stigma of being strange and uncannily different from my peers continued through high school where I was pelted with gum right out of people’s mouths while other students spit at me through straws in front of teachers who either turned a blind eye or directly participated in my torment by laughing at me while it happened (all this in just first period Biology class). A girl I’d never spoken to before told me that if I died or killed myself, she would laugh.
There were in fact many days I thought of ending my life. I thought of myself as some sort of monster for being overweight. My parents are truly my best friends now and could not have loved me more to this day or growing up, but we weren’t always a great match when I was younger. My father, a shrewd, fair, and powerful NYPD detective, and my pragmatic and practical mother, an accountant, didn’t have coping techniques (through absolutely no fault of their own) for dealing with a social pariah interested in acting and art; not sports, like my father, who played minor league baseball and was an All-American basketball player, something that, in addition to being pushed and punched in the halls of school between classes, caused me a great deal of shame. So I hid the bullying I was going through at school from my parents. I grew up depressed, anxious and honestly, not wanting to live very long. To me, a step outside of my bedroom in my parents’ house was an opportunity to be ridiculed, physically abused or torn down for the betterment of others’ self esteem. The only way to ensure my safety was to never leave. Unfortunately, that’s what I did for too long. The reality is that I wanted to end my life.
Enter the McRib.
The first sandwich I picked up was so tasty, slathered in tangy barbecue sauce, slivered onions and tart pickles all on a hoagie style bun. Though I was often confused by the McRib’s sophistication, I was quickly entranced by McDonald’s idea that restructured pork patty, barbecue sauce, onions, and pickles served on a 5 1⁄2 inches (14 cm) roll was up there with any sandwich I knew. Sadly, there haven’t been any Puerto Rican/Italian sandwiches for me to connect with, but I was still enamored.
I didn’t understand at the time, but now I realize what I was doing: I was learning. I was learning flavour signatures that head of Marketing for McDonald’s, Chris Claremont, had the employees gently craft. I was learning about cultures and people that I had been ordering from behind the counter. I was learning that a sandwich could be different and hated, yet maybe they had something special. At a time when I didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere, when I didn’t feel like I had a family or community, I had McDonald’s, and they were my family. It wasn’t just an escape from anxiety and terror at school, but a way to focus on being a better person, despite what people said about me and how they treated me. There were communities that became families like McDonald’s and accepted each other and their faults and physical and racial differences and learned to love one another. That was how I learned how to treat a romantic partner the right way. That was where I learned how to be a better human being. That was where I learned to accept myself.