Weenie Goulash

I grabbed a milkshake and a Big Mac before work today and it reminded me of an incident from my past…and not one I remember fondly.

When I was a student at West End Elementary, there was a girl in my class who was incredibly kind but often underestimated. She was simple but sweet. She came from a family with very little money and was enrolled in special education classes however emotionally, she was wise beyond her years.

One day at lunch, a group of girls started asking everyone at the table what they had eaten for dinner the night before. One by one, the answers came: steak, Burger King, pizza. When it was my turn, I panicked. Wanting to fit in, I lied.

“I had a Big Mac and a milkshake.”

Then it was my friend’s turn.

She looked up and simply said, “I had weenie goulash.”

Several of the girls laughed…

I didn’t—not only because it was cruel, but because weenie goulash was exactly what my mom had made the night before. I froze and looked at my friend who was completely unaware of why the other girls were giggling. I felt instant regret. What was wrong with weenie goulash for dinner? My mom always mixed the cheese packet from the box of macaroni into the goulash. I absolutely loved it. 

I’ve never forgotten how ashamed I felt that day. Not because my family and I had weenie goulash for dinner, but because I wasn’t brave enough to tell the truth. I was embarrassed by something that never deserved embarrassment.

After elementary school, I transferred to another school district and never saw my friend again. Years later, I learned that she had become seriously ill and passed away around the seventh grade.

It has taken me 43 years to say this, but here it is. 

The night before that conversation in the elementary school lunchroom, my mama made weenie goulash.

That’s what I had for dinner.

Not a Big Mac.
Not a milkshake.

I had weenie goulash.

And I loved every single bite of it.