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My good childhood friend called it Ketch-Ranch-Honey, or Kerch for short. It was obviously a combination of the three primary dipping sauces: ketchup, ranch, and honey mustard. The two of us sat at a table with four or five other boys slugging Cokes, making Kerch, and talking shit about a boy in our playing group who had cheated his way to an unbelievable score of 45 over nine grueling holes of golf.
We were waiting for our chicken finger orders to be ready. It had been a long, arduous day on the golf course. It was mid-July and school had been out for just over a month at this point. Too young for summer jobs and too old for babysitters, the only thing we had was summer sports camps to keep us occupied.
At ten or eleven years old, a 45 on nine holes was certainly not unheard of amongst our friends, but it wasn’t something that happened often either. One, maybe two boys in our usual Wednesday morning league during the summer could consistently hit fairways and make an eight over 45, but the kid who had claimed to have done this today was a known cheater. A punk with a swing so hideous there was just no conceivable way for him to finish out with a 45 and win the day. Schoolyard justice was simply out of the question because we were, after all, a scrawny group of golfers.
We weren’t interested in trying to beat anyone up at that age because none of us could do it, so we sat back, ate our chicken fingers with Kerch and bitched about it while we waited for our rides home.
Ketch-Ranch-Honey never really caught on with mainstream America, and that little weasel who shot a 45 was seldom ever invited to play golf with us again after that stunt. But this isn’t about the cheating. And it’s not about Kerch because, to be completely honest with you, it’s not that good.
Too much going on in one sauce. In our little pocket of Suburbia, sure, we would make it to pass time inside the muni clubhouse, but it didn’t become a staple at kitchen tables and diners across the country. This is more about the meal itself because you see in those days – at ten, eleven, twelve, years of age, nothing quite hit the spot like a basket of chicken fingers and fries.
As a boy, it didn’t get any better foodwise than a plate of piping hot chicken fingers. Steam billowing and rising up off of the plate as you tore apart a tender with your bare hands.
Poolside at the country club, inside the decrepit clubhouse attached to the municipal golf course where I played every week as a lad in a summer league, or out to dinner with my parents – no matter the situation that I was faced, I had one order and one order only – chicken fingers and french fries.
Chicken tenders are to a child what beluga caviar is to an adult. Divine. Satiating. Utterly exquisite. Place a platter of chicken strips in front of a nine-year-old boy and you will understand what the phrase “happy as a pig in shit” really means.
Battered in delicious breading and accompanied by a cup of ranch dressing, the usual tender order will also come with a request for a Coca-Cola classic. Maybe even a splash of grenadine if the kid in question is a pro’s pro.
It’s been a long time since I last played a round with the boys in my summer golf league. I no longer yearn for it like I did during the dog days of summer as a ten-year-old with limited transportation options and not a single dollar to my name.
Carrying my bag around for nine holes as an eighty-pound kid in 90-degree weather just isn’t as fun as it used to be. However, as I sit here at a desk making just enough to get by and watching the rain fall out my window I do find it hard not to think about one thing. As I sit here in a suit that desperately needs to be dry cleaned I feel my salivary glands crying out for for a dish that I haven’t had in a long time. As I sit here with a stomach running on empty, I find myself yearning not the round of golf itself, but for the time spent after those terrible rounds were played.
I want to be back as that kid again mixing up a batch of Kerch, dipping chicken tender and french fry with reckless abandon into my basket as I put down three Cokes and laugh maniacally in a sugar-induced craze.
I think I know what I’m getting for lunch today and I think you do too. If you have the means, mix up a batch of Kerch for me and enjoy it. It’s Tuesday in the cubes, but that doesn’t mean we have to be completely miserable. .
Image via YouTube
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jduda@grandex.co
Who else but Duda could write an 840-word column about chicken tendies and freedom fries?
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I’m ecstatic if I shoot a 45
Seriously what ten year old can shoot 45? Been playing golf for like 10 years now and if I break 90 on 18 I’m celebrating.
3 years deep and my best on 18 is a 103, so I feel you.
Chicken t’s and fries is my go-to whenever I’m grabbing food at the airport. It ALWAYS sounds good.
Drunk food is almost always chicken fingers. Either slapped on a biscuit with some honey butter or served in a box with extra fries and extra Cane’s Sauce.
“Too young for summer jobs and too old for babysitters” really took me back to simpler days. Young Pete didn’t know how good he had it…
I was wondering what was for lunch but I think you just made my mind up for me.
Debate: best place to get a chicken tinder basket?
Raising Canes
DQ. Hands down
PDQ, Raisin Canes, Pluckers
Pluckers for sure
This was beautiful…
Sitting here on a Tuesday unexpectedly feelin’ the feels over tendies.
Mixing Heinz mayo, bbq, ketchup, and mustard from the four dispensers always did it for me as a kid. Didn’t realize it at the time, but it almost tastes like chickfila sauce.