Through all my visits to doctors and many clicks on WebMD, not one medical professional has ever prescribed the White Castle Cure.|
I'm amazed they found out about penicillin.
But I digress.
It was quarter-past way too late on a recent Friday-turned-Saturday.
I had spent 10 hours baby-sitting some over-served adult friends in a Chicago suburb. It's what you do when you are the only non-drinker in the group — you drive; you heard them like cattle when it's time to go; and you minimize conflict. Truth is, sometimes you incite conflict just to watch adults act like kids.
For the better part of two days, I had been achy. Not the normal beat-up-body achy I have from 6 to 9 a.m. daily, but inside achy. The pounding in the back of my head was a full 24 hours into play, and nothing in the food department looked or sounded good — a rarity in my world. My throat felt like sandpaper, and there was a rumble that sounded like a '67 Camaro inside my ears.
It should be noted that I am a big fan of White Castle hamburgers, those little squares of beefy heaven served on steamed buns. Grilled with onions and served with pickles, they are favorites of over-served late-night patrons across the land. For reasons I cannot explain in a family newspaper, White Castle hamburgers are referred to as "sliders." I prefer to call them "little squares from heaven."
Sadly, there is no White Castle in the Quad-Cities. Never has been, no matter what your kindly old next-door neighbor told you about a place in Moline in the 1950s.
The local radio tandem of Greg Dwyer and Bill Michaels have tried for years to get a franchise to locate in the Quads. No sale. We can get all the other bad-for-us fast-food joints to set up shop here, but not a White Castle. Dwyer and Michaels have gone so far as to have thousands of sliders flown in for those of us in need of a White Castle Cure.
But back to the medical marvel that is White Castle, which I believe cures the common cold and body aches.
When the evening-morning blowout finally ground to a rumblin'-bumblin'-stumblin' halt, I and my sickly body stopped at the White Castle on Joliet's Larkin Avenue. There I ordered eight singles with no cheese and the obligatory diet soda (a guy has to watch his dainty figure). I pulled into a shopping-outlet parking lot down the street and began the miracle of healing, inhaling the tasty squares a corporate muckety-muck has kept from Quad-Citians for more than 50 years.
I returned to the group, put my head to a pillow, and allowed White Castle to work its magic. When I woke, my headache was gone; my throat was clear; and the aches were knee and hip, not chest, nose and bones.
The White Castle Cure had struck again.
Columnist John Marx can be reached at 309-757-8388 or firstname.lastname@example.org.
Sherrard, IL Details
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