The Frozen Underwear Story

As I've said more than once in recent years, I grew up with a pretty dynamic circle of friends. This is why most of my stories revolve around Adam Cole, Brandon King, and Tim Newberry. There's always something good to tell; be it leaving Adam behind kissing his girlfriend goodnight at her house on top of a hill so that he had to chase me down if he didn't want to walk home, or listening to Brandon try to purchase a "ba' geiss" (Bag of ice) from a gas station attendant in Delaware, or Tim headbutting me to give me the only scar on my person, there's no end to the anecdotes I could rattle off around these, and others, of my friends back home in Arkansas.

When I was 15 or 16, about a dozen of us guys from the church we attended in Springdale went on an overnight trip to Tulsa, Oklahoma (famous internationally for being where Chandler Bing worked...) with our youth minister, Brian. We'd checked into a sort of hotel suite, with multiple beds, a kitchenette, and a divided bathroom (sink and vanity through one door, toilet and shower through a further). I cannot sleep until I'm clean, so while the rest, I though, were watching a movie, I hopped in to clean off the daily grime. While I was out of hearing, however, Tim removed the laces from my shoes and tied the bathroom door (which opened inwards) to the vanity sink, so that I couldn't get out. This was a common prank, originated from Brian, our youth minister. The coup de grace came when, at church camp one year, we tied a dozen dorm doors, occupied by another church group, all together with one stretch of rope, effectively locking about 50 dudes in their rooms. I managed to yank the door enough to stretch the lace sufficiently to push the blade of my pocketknife through the small opening thus afforded and cut myself out.

This was, of course, not the worst of the matter. While I'd been fighting my way out of the shower, someone else, probably at Tim's direction, had gotten into my bag, which I should've know to carry in with me, and removed my jocks/skivvies/undershorts/briefs/whitey-tighties. These they took into the kitchen and submerged in a bowl of water, and placed the whole affair in the freezer. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what all the snickering was as I rummaged over and over through my belongings in search of some clean underwear. Finally, the room erupted in heart-felt guffaws, and I was informed as to my clothing's location. Ohhhhh, I was beside myself. I opened the freezer and saw, sure enough to my further rage, that I was now effectively without a clean pair of jocks.

Tim, conniver that he is and knower of personalities and weaknesses, told me that they'd all agreed to buy me breakfast in the morning, as a recompense, providing I could remove my shorts from the freezer (come breakfast-time), extract them from the bowl, and put them on. Now, you'd simply have to know that I'm a sucker for a free meal, and as my whiteys were already nearly on the rocks, I took the bait, and slept in my swimming trunks.

The blow didn't really fall till the next morning, when I dutifully chipped my underwear out of a solid block of ice with a fork, pried them apart, and experienced the coldest sensation of all my born days. It was then, as I scurried off to reheat myself, amid a roomful of hecklers splitting their sides agape, that I was informed that it was a continental breakfast.

In America, 'continental' means free.

And I've always wondered how that particular name had been chosen for a free breakfast. Now, having travelled Europe both through England and on the continent, I've assessed the mystery. A traditional English breakfast, or a great fry-up as the locals would say, consists of fried tomatoes, baked beans, fried mushrooms, white English sausage links (savoury, but much drier than sausage in the States), and fried bacon (which is more akin to thinly sliced ham, where I'm from), toast, cereal, orange juice, tea and coffee. Breakfast on the continent, however, is far less impressive, as a rule. Usually, it consists of cereal and a bread of some sort, with jam and butter, perhaps some fruit, and tea or coffee. Unless, of course, you're staying at the Hortnagl House in Navis, Austria, where breakfast is a glorious melee of sliced meats and cheeses, breads, coffee, cocoa, and honey fresh from the comb just out the back door.

A continental breakfast, then, is a term attached by European travellers at some point in the vaguely recent past to indicate that one should not expect the hot meal associated with breakfast in England. Speaking of which, the inspiration here expounded came about this morning, as I broke fast in the west Yorkshire town of Holmfirth, famously the set for the 30-year running British comedy series "Last of the Summer Wine." It's a lovely little locale, and I plan to do some much anticipated hiking and touristing this afternoon.

Y'all have a fabulous day.
jeff