On Fuddruckers and Growing up
There are certain places, smells, people, textures, sounds, and experiences that inspire a fluffy, delicious ball of nostalgia to explode in my stomach.
Like when I get a whiff of my great-grandmother, Nana, out and about somewhere. Or like when I watched We’re Back for the first time in my adult life and was flooded with simultaneous wonder and fear, just as I was as a kid watching that film. Or like when I found my copy of Matilda, tattered, stained, worn, my heart was showered with longing for the simpler times, in which I was first introduced to the magical wonders of Roald Dahl’s works.
It’s a conundrum, these experiences. I’m sure there’s a poetic German word for it - that feeling when one is simultaneously morose and merry when slapped in the face with nostalgia. That realization that while we age, our childhood safe havens stay put, embracing the inevitable forgetfulness of growing up.
My brother and I had an impromptu lunch at the marvelous, immortal Fuddruckers on Valley Mills this week. As soon as I walked in and saw the framed photos of Jimmy Stewart and Jean Harlow, I was met with this unmistakable, unidentifiable feeling: joy for rediscovering a lost gem and sorrow that it ever escaped my frame of mind. Not sorrow because I’ve missed out on Fuddruckers french fries and cheese dip all of these years, but because little Bethany was enamored by the twinkling lights of the arcade games and the black and white photos of beautiful people who reminded her of her grandparents. And little Bethany isn’t here anymore.
Fuddruckers is an enigma in and of itself. I don’t know why it’s irresistibly charming to me, but this time warp of a restaurant is just as mind-boggling and homey as ever. The walls are lined with the exact same impossible-to-beat games. The same jetski hangs from the ceiling. The same couches line that one wall where I guess someone can eat a burger on a couch in public if they want to? And the same James Dean portrait hangs off center in the bathroom hallway.
We used to dine at the self-proclaimed “World’s Greatest Burger” joint on Friday nights for special occasions, like to celebrate my brother’s Kindergarten graduation. At the end of the night, we’d order a cookie from the baked goods counter and eat them on the way out. Fuddruckers will always remind me of childhood, family, celebration, and fun.
But walking into that Fuddruckers this week gave me that strange feeling. It dawned on me that after all these years of growing, I don’t much relate to the child I once was and I wish I could have said goodbye to her.
There’s a Welsh word that begins to illustrate what I’m failing to articulate: Hiraeth, longing for a home that never was.
I am homesick for Saturday morning cartoons, accompanied by Lucky Charms and my favorite bean bag. For blanket forts and trampoline castles. For those long, solo walks around the neighborhood, during which time my imagination ran wild, and my biggest concern was whether or not my sister would realize I stole her Pink CD.
Much of my life now at 27 feels lifetimes away from those solo nature walks. I’ve lived and lost in those years between. And I genuinely can’t believe some of the things that have taken up space in my head throughout that time.
It bums me out that things don’t stay exactly as they are in the blissful moments, but I suppose we can hope that some things are waiting for us to return and find them just as they were, like Fuddruckers on Valley Mills.
I’m taking a break from my blog, friends. But I hope to find her again, just as she was, and to be met with that delicious ball of nostalgia in my belly.
Until then, let’s continue to write as forgiveness, write as therapy, write as love.
